


Family Values

by Corinna



Series: Family Values [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mayhem, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corinna/pseuds/Corinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine’s parents are away from home a lot. Which he’s never really thought of as a problem, until now. </p><p>Diverges from canon during and after 4x22</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to Wowbright and Pene and Yahtzee for beta reading, and to Punk for help with videogames, like always.

 

The day Blaine Anderson’s life changed forever started like any normal Tuesday. Wake up, get ready for the day, and text his parents good morning. _Heading to school now!_  They didn’t respond, but that wasn’t unusual either. They were less insistent on it this year, now that he was eighteen. 

Maybe it was because they were older when they had him, but Blaine’s parents weren’t like most of his friends’ parents. They weren’t over-involved worriers like Tina’s parents, or the sort who stressed family above all, like Sam’s, or Kurt’s. They cared, of course they _cared_. And even if it took them longer to get there than he would have liked, they were supportive of his being out, too. They weren’t bad parents; they were just busy. And that was fine with him. He tried to respect who they were, and not try to change them, or wish they were different. Maybe they weren’t the kind of parents who you’d have long conversations with about feelings or anything, but on the other hand, they did all respect each other’s privacy. 

His parents had their own business: Anderson & Associates, a marketing research consulting firm. It paid for the house and the cars and the music lessons and the Brooks Brothers cardigans, which Blaine really appreciated. It also meant they were away a lot, doing their job. So this wasn’t the first or even the tenth time Blaine had been in charge of the house by himself for a few days. He was pretty much an expert on managing its day-to-day needs. 

He washed the coffee pot, took out the trash, and turned out all the lights before he left, like he always did. He checked the back door and the garage door and the windows the way his parents had taught him, and he locked both locks on the front door behind him. It always paid to take the time to be safe. 

School was the same as every other Tuesday too. He had a presentation in AP History, which went well, and a pop quiz in AP French, which he aced. He checked his phone once at lunchtime: two calls from blocked numbers and no messages. That was weird. Then later, waiting for glee club to start, his phone rang again, from a New York number. _New York._ His heart skipped a beat, thinking of who it might be: Kurt, NYADA, everything he wanted. But when he picked up, there was no one there.

He frowned and called the number back. By this point, his imagination was dredging up worst-case scenarios: Kurt in the hospital, Santana arrested, NYADA with missing paperwork in his application. On the other end of the line, the phone rang and rang.

Blaine hung up and stared at his phone. Would it be weird to call Kurt, just to check in? They kind of still talked, after all. Blaine’s big dreams of their loving reunion and happily-ever-after might have fallen apart, but that didn’t mean they weren’t friends.

“Hey, dude, what’s wrong?” Sam dropped into a chair on the row below Blaine’s. “You look like someone stomped on your wingtips.”

“Nothing. I was — nothing.” Even thinking about saying it out loud made him realize how ridiculous he was being. It was just a wrong number. Everything was fine. “How are you?”

“Good. I’m good. Your folks get in okay?”

“They’re not back yet. I told you, they called on Sunday. They’re doing more interviews in Kansas City, and they’ll be back Friday night.”

“Well, that sucks. Or, is kind of awesome.” Sam considered the options. “Maybe both. Do you want to hang out later?”

“I’m fine on my own, Sam.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t. But if you have the place to yourself, we can plug the Xbox into the big TV in the living room, right? Unlock more of the Justice League in _Lego Batman 2._ ”

Sam was looking up at Blaine so hopefully; it did things to Blaine’s insides that he mostly didn’t let himself think about. And Sam had been lonely since Brittany left, it was true. He probably needed the company. “Sure,” Blaine said. “That’ll be fun. We can order in Chinese food.”

“It is on, man.” Sam high-fived him right as Mr. Schuester and Finn walked in, wearing matching grins and sweater vests.

*****

“I can’t believe your folks still haven't gotten rid of that answering machine,” Sam said as he hung up his jacket. “That’s some serious old-school.”

Blaine shrugged. “They’re not that into technology.” There were three messages on the machine; he let it play while he sorted the mail into bills and everything else. Sam ambled past him towards the kitchen.

His mother’s voice, tinny from the machine’s tiny speaker. “ _You’ve reached the Anderson residence. If you’re calling for the services of Anderson & Associates, please contact our office at 419-555-4332. Otherwise, please leave a message after the tone_.”

_Beep!_ Click. A hangup.

_Beep!_ Click. Another hangup.

_Beep!_ Not a hangup, but noise: a staticky hum mixed with noises Blaine couldn’t identify. It sounded like getting a butt dial call from inside an engine. He shook his head – it had been a weird day for phone calls – and deleted all the messages from the machine.

Sam came back into the foyer, holding a can of Coke. “Ready to rumble?”

“Hey, have you had any weird hang-up calls today?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Why?”

“We got them here and on my phone. It’s probably a coincidence.”

“Maybe you’ve got a stalker.”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”

“Hey, why not? You’re a handsome guy.”

“That’s – that’s not how that works, Sam. What do you want for dinner?” The takeout menu for Jade Emperor was right on the table in the foyer next to the phone, with all of Blaine’s favorites already circled.

“Dinner? I thought we were playing video games. I’m here to fight Lex Luthor and chew bubblegum — and I’m all out of bubblegum.” 

Sam’s voice had gone all low and serious, meaning he was doing an impersonation. Blaine didn’t know who he was impersonating, but he was sure it was great: Sam was so good with voices. He was about to say as much when, above them, something went _thump_.

“Did you hear that?” Blaine hissed.

They both stared up at the ceiling. Sam whispered, “Should we –” _Thump-thump_. 

“We should get the cops.” Blaine said. He’d thought about this, the first times his parents had let him stay home alone. What he’d do if someone ever broke in. He never thought he’d need it, but he had a plan. “Call 911.” He readjusted the strap of his messenger bag and headed towards the back of the house.

Sam grabbed his arm. “Dude. Dude, you are not going up there!”

“No,” Blaine said. “I’m not. My dad has a gun in his office.”

“Are you nuts?” Sam was barely managing to keep whispering. “You don’t know how to fire a gun.”

“Whoever’s up there doesn’t know that.” Blaine pulled free and gave Sam what he hoped was a determined look. “Now call 911. Hurry.”

Blaine started walking past the staircase towards his dad’s office. He’d barely passed the stairs when he heard a _whomp_ from the kitchen, and voices shouting. Upstairs, there were feet landing heavily, running, and before he could even really process what was happening, there were men coming down the stairs. Two men, muscled and looming, both dressed in black, with knit black caps and dark glasses, both of them holding guns. They’d spotted Sam almost immediately, and were shouting orders at him: “Freeze! Where you are! Hands up!” 

Blaine couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes off Sam. Sam had dropped his phone by his feet as his hands went up. He was wide-eyed and breathing hard, freaked out. 

Two more men came in from the kitchen, just as threatening and just as armed. One of them turned to face Sam, and Sam threw himself at him, slamming into the man hard enough to make him stumble back. “ _Run!_ ” Sam yelled, and Blaine ran.

Hands shaking, he unlocked the back door and ran across the yard. Their fence with the Gregsons next door had a gate, and Tim Gregson’s bike was right where he always left it, leaned up against the back deck. Blaine grabbed it, apologizing profusely in his head, and took off. 

When he came around to the front, someone back at his house shouted, and he heard a car engine start. _Shit_. He pedaled harder till he came to the corner, then took a hard left. The street was one-way, the wrong way, and downhill: he figured he might buy himself a little time. 

Where was he headed? The police station was too far. A gas station? He could call the cops from there, maybe even call his parents, Sam’s parents – God, _Sam_. He turned again, another wrong-way street, headed to the gas station over by the highway. Behind him, he heard car tires squeal in a turn. 

He was pedaling as fast as he could. The wind was in his face and the bike was fast for a kid’s bike, but it wasn’t going to be enough. He was going to die, and he didn’t even understand what had happened. He had to keep trying though. He had to keep going. He pushed hard on the pedals, putting on speed. His bag flapped against his back like it was urging him on. He could do this. He had to.

He turned one more time, and the street was clear. The thought that he might make it was almost dizzying. He put his head down and pedaled, willing Tim’s bike to be a racer. One block, two blocks: as he came closer to the  highway, he heard a car engine behind him, but he didn’t let himself look back. The car sped up. Blaine’s heart was hammering in his chest, but he kept his head down, looking forward, pushing faster. The car pulled up alongside him, and for a moment he thought that was it. But the car kept going, driving past and putting on speed as soon as he was behind it. Blaine loosened his grip on the handles and gulped down air, giddy with relief.

One more corner to clear, and he’d be there. He could do this. He could do it for Sam. He put his back into it, pushing hard. A car came barrelling up through the intersection, a maroon sedan with tinted windows, and it stopped, blocking the street. Blaine skidded hard as he turned, trying to avoid it, but he was too fast and it was too close: the bike collapsed under him, and he fell hard to the street, his bag tangling around him.

The car’s passenger-side door opened, and Blaine couldn’t breathe.

“Get in,” said a familiar voice.

“What?”

“Blaine, get in the car _this instant!_ ”

Blaine pushed himself to his feet and started picking up Tim’s bike.

“Leave the bike!”

Blaine blinked hard, like that could make things make sense. Shakily, he stepped over the bike and got into the car. As soon as he’d shut the car door, they peeled off again, turning hard towards the highway. The tires screeched and the seatbelt warning dinged at him.

“Well, little brother,” said Cooper Anderson. “You’re really in it this time, huh?”


	2. Chapter 2

They were headed towards the interstate before Blaine finally trusted himself to speak. “If this is all some kind of weird stunt, Coop...”

“No stunt, little man,” said his brother. “Those were some actual bona fide bad guys. Hey, would you do me a favor and stay down?”

“What?”

“Slouch a little in your seat. Or more than a little. I’m not sure how much I trust the tinting on these windows.”

“Okay.” Blaine scrunched down in his seat until he was pretty sure his head couldn’t even be seen over the window. He had to take off his seatbelt so he could get into position; it felt weird not to be wearing it as they drove on. “How did you even find me?”

“I was coming to the house already, but I got there too late. Sorry about that. How many were there?”

“What?”

“How many guys were involved in the break-in?”

Blaine tried to remember. “Four? I think it was four.” He caught his breath. “Sam. Oh my God, _Sam_.”

“Sam?”

“My friend Sam.”

Cooper looked over at him, surprised. “He was one of them?”

“No, he was there. They have him. We have to call 911!” Now that he was safe, or something like safe, all the fear he’d pushed away before was coming back, twice as strong.  

“Okay. Give me your phone.”

Blaine reached into his bag and handed over his phone. Cooper glanced at it, opened his window, and threw the phone out onto the street.

“What the hell?”

Cooper kept his eyes on the road as they merged onto the highway. “Carrying a cellphone is like carrying your very own personal homing beacon. You want to know how I found you? That’s how.”

“But Sam...”

“I called 911 as soon as I saw a bunch of guys in black blowing a hole in the garage to get into our house. Except I know enough to route my call through anonymizers. Look, from now on, you’re going to have to follow some basic security principles, or you’re going to put us both at risk.”

Blaine let himself slide all the way to the floor in front of the passenger seat; the space was cramped but he could fit if he turned sideways and curled himself into a tight ball. Cooper looked at him like he was going to say something, then turned his eyes back to the road.

_I am not going to panic_ , Blaine told himself. _I am not panicking._

They stayed like that for a while before Cooper broke the silence. “I know it's a lot, squirt. I'm sure you're freaking out right now. We'll talk about it later, I promise. I'll answer all the questions I can and probably some I can't too. In the meantime, though, try to relax, okay? Roll with it.”

He punctuated the end of his pep talk with a tongue-click and a finger-point in the shape of a gun. His familiar idiot of a brother, showing up in this weirdly competent-seeming stranger. It was reassuring, if only a little bit. He leaned his head back against the inside of the car door and closed his eyes, letting the hum of the road soak into him.

*****

Blaine didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke up to Cooper shaking him gently by the shoulder. “Mmmph. Where are we?”

“Middle of nowhere, southern Ohio.” Cooper had on a ratty-looking rain slicker that he’d zippered all the way to the top. His hair was messily brushed forward over his forehead, and he he was wearing his old reading glasses. It was as close as Coop was ever going to come to looking unattractive and it still wasn’t anywhere near close enough. “I figure that if they’re looking for us, they’ll expect us to keep driving. So instead, we’re stopping here for the night to regroup. I got us room 23; when I get out of the car, count to a hundred and then come right in, okay?”

Blaine nodded, and Cooper headed off. At the count of one hundred, he unfolded himself up and out of the car. He stretched his arms over his head, twisting his head to work out the kinks in his neck, and looked around.

The sun was setting, and the trees lining the edge of the parking lot cast long shadows on the asphalt. The motel was a low-slung concrete box punctuated by long windows and electric-green doors. Beyond it, he could hear the highway, the whoosh of cars going by and the low rumble of trucks. For the first time he could remember, he had no idea where he was, or where he was going. 

Cooper had already dropped his bag on the bed closer to the door: the same leather tote that Blaine remembered from his brother’s visits home. He wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not. “I saw a Wal-Mart about two miles back. I'm making a supply run. Write down your sizes, I'll buy you a change of clothes.” 

Something concrete for him to do was good: he could focus on that. Blaine pulled a notebook out of his messenger bag and started writing. 

“Any requests?”

“Nothing with a brand logo or a Hooters girl on it.”

Cooper smirked. “Anything else?”

“How long do I need to be planning for?”

“Get whatever it is you’re going to need.”

Blaine pushed back the image of weeks, months, in creepy motels like this one. This was temporary. He was going to be okay soon. They’d call Mom and Dad, and they’d all be together, and everything was going to make sense. “Okay,” he said, and he took a deep breath. “Hair gel, for sure.” He skipped a couple of lines on the notebook page and listed out his favorite hair and skin care products. Some random Wal-Mart was never going to have his brands, but it didn't hurt to ask. “And shaving gear? I have sensitive skin.”

Cooper rolled his eyes. “I'll be back soon. Don't answer the phone, don't answer the door, don't stand by the window. The TV should work. Take a shower or something.”

The silence after Cooper left felt almost menacing, like the room somehow managed to get smaller and more confining. Blaine sat down on what was now his bed and ran his hand along the bedspread. It felt stiff and weird, and he tried not to think about who’d done what in that room. He pulled the bedspread off the bed, leaving a dispirited-looking grey blanket, folded it up, and put it away in the closet. Then he went into the bathroom and washed his hands for a full sixty seconds, the way Miss Pillsbury had showed them during flu season. 

He looked around the room, trying to make everything about it less incomprehensible. He’d woken up that morning in his own bed, put on the outfit he’d picked out the night before, and driven himself to school. Now he was stuck in a motel room with – what? Not even a change of clothes. 

Actually, he remembered, he did have a T-shirt in his bag. He picked up the messenger bag from the floor and started going through what he had left of his normal existence. His textbooks and his notebooks, with all of today’s assignments carefully noted. He didn’t know when he would need those again. He was probably okay not doing tonight’s homework. There was his extra T-shirt, which he’d started carrying in case he got too sweaty during a dance rehearsal. Two trail-mix bars, one of which he opened and ate immediately. A juice box. Some fliers from school. His wallet. His house keys. And at the bottom of the bag, a small black jewelry box that some days he even forgot he was still carrying around with him.

_They were drinking sparkling cider and laughing after Mr. Schuester and Miss Pillsbury’s surprise wedding, drunk on the Regionals win and happiness. Kurt was standing so close Blaine could feel the heat of him, and that was intoxicating too. Blaine could wait while Kurt talked to Mercedes and Sam about NYADA – he had all night to talk to him and start laying the groundwork for his master plan. Seeing Kurt still so happy about weddings had made him sure: he was definitely going to propose. He flipped the ring box over again in his pocket._

_“...it’s not like they even have permission to do it, but somehow the next day everyone knows what happened at Midnight Madness. Some of it’s the blogs, but some of it is the rumor mill: it’s even more efficient than at McKinley, which if you think about it is sort of – oh!” Kurt’s phone started ringing, an acoustic-guitar ringtone that Blaine didn’t recognize. “Excuse me.”_

_Kurt answered the call as he started walking away, toward the rows of chairs at the back of the room. “ Adam! Hi,” he said quietly but warmly, and Blaine’s heart sank._

_“Pretend to talk to me,” he said to Sam. Sam looked at him like he was a crazy person. “Just talk, okay?”_

_Sam started telling him about some new video game, but Blaine was watching Kurt, watching him pour himself into one of the chairs on the upper rows. He laughed at something on the phone, and folded one long leg over the other as he kept listening. His eyes were bright, and his face was a little flushed, and he never stopped smiling. Blaine felt like someone was pressing a knife into his chest._

_“...and that’s how you end up in the underwater city. Are you even listening?”_

_“What? No. Sam, look at him.”_

_Sam scowled at him, but turned to look at Kurt anyhow. Kurt was talking now, something Blaine couldn’t make out over the party noise, but he was hugging his top knee towards his chest as he spoke, and his face was animated and happy. “He got good news?”_

_“He’s talking to Adam,” Blaine said. It hurt to say._

_“Oh.”_

_Kurt lifted his head to scan the room. Blaine looked away. “I missed it, Sam.”_

_“What?”_

_“I missed my chance.” Blaine swallowed hard against the sadness. “He's in love.”_

In the dingy motel room, Blaine opened the box again. The engagement ring Jan at the jewelry store had helped him pick out – a small square-cut diamond, inset in a simple titanium band – winked back at him from its black velvet setting. He hadn’t returned it, or hidden it, or driven out to the reservoir and thrown it in; he’d just left it in his bag. At first it was because he couldn’t even bear to look at it, let alone figure out what to do with the thing. After a while, he got used to having it around: he carried it with him like a scar, a reminder of how badly he’d failed. Today, though, it felt like a piece of his old life, his _real_ life – painful, sure, but one of the good pieces – and he stared down at it for a while, remembering. 

He put the ring safely away in his bag, tucked into a zippered pocket, and settled down to watch some home redecorating show on TV. It was loud and frenetic enough that he could use it to push everything else away, and try to not think at all for a while. Cooper returned near the end of the episode, loaded down with Wal-Mart shopping bags and a pizza box.  

“I got you some clothes, some shoes, a burner phone, and those potato chips you like,” Cooper told him. “You’re welcome.” Blaine was already rooting through the bags, examining Cooper’s haul. 

“What the hell is this?” Blaine demanded, holding up a container of hair product. On the side it said _Curl-Defining and Enhancing Conditioner Gel_. 

“You asked for gel...”

“That’s not funny.”

“It sort of is.”

“Goddammit, Cooper!” Blaine threw the bottle straight at the center of his brother’s chest. Cooper caught it before he got hit, which only made Blaine angrier. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Blaine...”

“Those guys were in our house, Coop. They had guns, and they have my friend. Sam could be dead right now, and you’re making jokes?”

“I’m sure he’s not dead. No one’s going to kill some kid if they don’t have to.” Cooper said it like he meant it to be reassuring, but all it did was underline how upside-down the world had suddenly become.

Blaine could only laugh incredulously. “Who _are_ you? Seriously, how is this even happening to me?”

Cooper’s forehead furrowed, and his bright blue eyes seemed to dim. “You have to know that no one ever wanted you to be part of any of this. All of us – me, Mom, Dad, everybody – we wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” 

“Well, let’s start with Mom and Dad,” Cooper said. "They’re not market research specialists. They’re spies.”


	3. Chapter 3

**_November, 1983_ **   
_**Camp Peary Central Intelligence Agency Training Facility (aka “The Farm”)** _   
_**Williamsburg, Virginia** _

_“Excuse me, hi, can I ask you a question? I’m new here.”_

_Serena Cooper turned to face her questioner, and her stomach did a little flip when their eyes met. He had to be a new trainee – she would have remembered an officer this handsome, even if they’d only met at a briefing._

_“My name’s Serena Cooper,” she said, holding out her hand._

_“Bradley Anderson.” He had a nice handshake; not too firm, but not limp or sweaty either. “Can you tell me how to get to Room 530-B?”_

_Serena’s heart skipped a beat. Her classroom, where she was heading right now, and Bradley Anderson was going there too. For a day that had started with a pop quiz on interrogation techniques, this was turning out to be amazingly great. “Clandestine Target Elimination? Sure. Come with me – I know a shortcut.”_

Blaine shook his head in amazement. “They said they met in business school.”

“Sort of the truth, if you think about it,” Cooper pointed out. He reached into the pizza box for another slice.

“And so when they lived overseas when you were little...”

“They weren’t working for Procter & Gamble, no. Actually, they were pretty big deals at the Company in their day. So we traveled the world, going wherever they got assigned.” Cooper’s smile got reminiscent. “The year we spent in Jakarta was my favorite. But that could just be that I was old enough to appreciate it.”

None of this was making any sense. “Why didn’t they lie to you too?”

“Oh, they did. Or they tried to. But we lived in pretty small apartments back then, and I was smart enough to put two and two together early on.”

Blaine was still having trouble with the idea of _Cooper_ and _smart_ being anywhere near each other in a sentence, unless they were separated by _he’s not so_. He took a careful bite of his pizza. 

“I was four when I found Dad's disguise kit for the first time. After that, they couldn't keep it hidden from me. I would tear up the apartment searching for it, and throw a fit if he didn't bring it home. They started me in acting classes so I’d have my own disguises for a change. Better than letting the kid risk their operational effectiveness.”

“And that's why you're an actor?”

Cooper shook his head. “No. Well, sort of, but not really. Acting is my cover story. It's what I do so I don't have to tell people I work in intelligence. For my parents, no less.” 

“But isn't that a terrible cover? Everybody knows who you are.”

“When you were in junior high, when you thought I was backpacking in Europe? I was at the CIA, trying to make a career for myself in the covert service. Turns out, it’s hopeless.” He pointed a finger at his own face, and drew a circle in the air. “I’m too good-looking. I nearly blew two different missions because people remember me. Sure, I guess I could’ve tried seduction, but honeytrap jobs aren’t how you get ahead at the Company, believe me. Plus, I don’t want to risk an STD. Even for my country.”

“I... I’m going to pretend I heard none of that,” said Blaine.

“As it happens, I’m good at comms, I’m tech-savvy, and I know how to run an op.” Cooper continued, oblivious. “The intelligence community post-9/11 is a mess, and the CIA still uses Lotus Notes. I can’t work under those conditions. So I work with Mom and Dad, mostly, coordinating jobs, running comms, and doing some work from LA. Black bag jobs and anything tech-related.”  He reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. WESTLAKE PARTNERS, it said, with an email address, and a Los Angeles phone number. “That’s our card. People usually think it’s named for the neighborhood in LA. Really, it’s Dad’s idea of a joke – Eastbrook, Westlake, ha ha.” Their house, on Eastbrook Avenue, now with a hole in its side. 

Blaine frowned and blinked again, trying to make it all make sense. “But the acting…?”

“Like I said: acting is my cover identity. You don’t think anyone would be that bad at it on purpose, do you?” Cooper smirked. “I try hard to make sure I don’t get too successful, even with this face. Acting is fun. It gives me a good reason to not have a day job, and I use the travel as an opportunity to take on new projects. Build my own brand for when the folks retire. I was in Japan last week, doing a whiskey ad – perfect time to break into the servers at Mizuho Bank. No one’s ever going to suspect the dumb TV guy of corporate espionage.”

Oh, God. Cooper was Batman. Spy Batman. This had to be a bad dream.

“But you, kiddo – part of the reason they went private was so that at least one of us would have a normal upbringing.” Cooper sighed. “Well, that and the post-Cold War drawdown. But definitely they thought you having a normal childhood would be a plus. Uncle Larry used to take me out to plant bugs for him when he babysat; I think they thought I might’ve been a doctor if I’d had different influences.”

“Uncle Larry...?” Blaine repeated. Larry McCandliss had been one of their parents’ best friends, a tall happy man who showed up at the lake house at least once every summer and always had time for endless rounds of hide-and-seek. 

Cooper nodded.

“You’re going to tell me he didn’t die in a car accident, aren’t you?”

Cooper didn’t say anything, but his face went sad and tired. 

Blaine had to look away. “Was there anything that wasn’t a lie?”

“None of the important stuff, kiddo.” Cooper reached over and shook Blaine’s knee. “Why do you think I’m in Ohio today in the first place? Mom and Dad sent me to get you. They used a super-urgent code word, the sort of thing they would only use if something’s gone wrong on a job. And the only thing they wanted me to do was to get you somewhere safe.”

“Mom and Dad are in danger?” Blaine couldn’t even begin to process that idea. Blaine’s parents were staid, serious, work-obsessed marketing research consultants. They had favorite hotels in the greater Omaha area, and they both wore sensible shoes. Nothing about them was dangerous. Except that maybe all of that was a lie.

“Mom and Dad are two of the best in the business,” Cooper reassured him. “They’re going to be fine. We’re going to get you to safety, and then once you’re settled, I’m going to go help them.”

“No,” Blaine said, and suddenly he knew what he had to do. “You’re going to take me with you.”

“Blainey. You can’t –“

“I don’t care." He took Cooper’s hand off his knee and squeezed it, putting as much of his determination into it as he could. “I don’t need to be part of some big rescue mission. I can — I don’t know, take notes. Make dinner. Whatever. If there’s something I can do to help, then I can’t just sit back and wait, Coop. I can’t. They’re my parents too.”

Cooper pried his hand free and stared hard at Blaine, considering him carefully. Blaine tried to look like he knew what he was doing. 

“All right, then,” said Cooper, pushing his chair back from the table. “Let’s get to work.”

 

 

*****

“Okay, let me know if you need to stop watching this. I don’t want you having flashbacks or something.”

“What do you mean?” Blaine was sitting on Cooper’s bed in the motel while Cooper did something fiddly to his MacBook. Blaine had started in on the bag of potato chips – they really were his favorites – when Cooper pressed a series of keys and stepped back. 

Suddenly, the screen was covered in small grainy video players, black and white squares, and each one was an image from their house back in Lima. Security camera footage.

“The whole house?” Every move he’d ever made in his own home, every dance rehearsal and, wow, every kitchen makeout session flashed before his eyes. 

“Don’t worry – they made me take the camera out of your room when you started dating.”

Blaine wasn’t sure whether he was more horrified by the idea that the cameras had been there in the first place or touched that his parents had been so considerate: they hadn’t always seemed that supportive of his relationship with Kurt. The emotion settled down to something between freaked out and pleased, which was actually an improvement over most of what he’d been feeling since Cooper’s rescue.

Cooper pressed some more buttons, and the timestamp on the video sped up. The empty rooms stayed still and quiet until the timestamp read 16:42; Cooper stopped the video and slowed it down to normal speed again. In the upstairs hallway, the two attackers came out of his parents’ bedroom, scanned the area, and started going into the other bedrooms.

“Sonofabitch,” Cooper said. “If they got into the safe in Mom and Dad’s room…”

Blaine watched the video feed from the front entrance as he and Sam came in and checked the answering machine. “Oh, there were some weird calls,” he remembered. “Hangups and machine noise.”

His brother frowned, considering. “Hmm. Might’ve been a bad wiretap attempt.”

“On my cellphone, too.”

“You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?”

“Well, I didn’t have anything to _remind_ me of it after you threw my phone out the car window.”

“Fine.” Cooper let out a dramatic, put-upon sigh. “Let’s focus on the attack for now, okay?”

In the video feed from the kitchen, Sam wandered in, got a soda, wandered back out. As he left, the knob on the door to the garage started turning as someone tested it.

“That’s a high-quality lock,” Cooper said. “Not as easy to break in through the garage as they thought.”

The first two attackers were back in the upstairs hallway again. One of them raised his hand, cautioning, and pointed down the stairs.

“They heard us,” said Blaine. 

The second attacker nodded, pulled some sort of device off his belt loop, and pushed some buttons. In another video feed, Blaine watched himself head off towards his father’s office.

In the kitchen, there was a flash of light behind the door, which fell inwards, along with part of its frame and some plaster. Cooper winced sympathetically. The second two attackers came in, weapons out, and the first two started down the stairs.

Blaine understood now why Cooper had said he didn’t have to watch. Even with the grainy black and white, it was almost like being there again: seeing those men come through their house, seeing himself freeze in place until Sam shouted. The Blaine on the screen ran for the back door and freedom, with two of the attackers fumbling after him; in the motel room, Blaine had to watch as the men remaining in the house restrained his best friend.

One of the men had Sam in a chokehold, bracing Sam’s body against him as Sam struggled. Another one shouted at Sam, the words lost in the silent video feed. Sam shook his head violently, and set his mouth firmly shut. 

The man who’d been shouting at Sam stopped shouting, and threw a quick, sharp punch at his jaw. The force of the hit knocked Sam’s head to the side, and he hung there in the other man’s hold, limp but still struggling. The first man hit him again, and the struggling stopped. They dropped him on the floor and searched Sam's pockets while he just lay there, frighteningly still. The man who’d hit him pulled out Sam's wallet, rifled through it, and took out the license. He said something to his partner, then dropped the wallet on the floor. Together, the men started walking towards the back of the house. As they passed the staircase, one of them pulled out a cell phone and punched in some numbers.

“Yes!” exulted Cooper. He did something that swiped all the video off the screen and brought up a window full of letters and numbers. “That was 17:02, right? Blaine?”

Blaine couldn’t speak.

“Right,” Cooper said, almost to himself. “Civilians. I’ll just check the whole time period around there... and bingo. He sent a text at 17:03 to a number in the 347 area code. A New York City cell number. And that number is –” his fingers flew across the keyboard again “– a pay-as-you-go phone. But it’s a start.”

“One of my weird calls today was from a New York number,” Blaine said. He felt sick. Sam was hurt, and it was his fault. He should have gone home to do his homework by himself. He should never have run. He should have protected them both. Instead he’d let Sam, his sweet protective friend, get hurt for him. He wasn’t any better at being a friend than he was at being a boyfriend. 

“See? There you go. Every little bit helps.” Cooper did something else on the keyboard and hit the enter key with a flourish. 

“Cooper? Can you fast-forward? Make sure Sam woke up okay?”

“I can do better than that.” More fast typing and a few _hmmms_ later, Cooper called his brother over to the computer. “Lima PD report of the break-in,” he said, gesturing to a window full of text. “Includes one Evans, Samuel J., aged eighteen, who was found at the scene, unconscious. Treated for a concussion at Lima Memorial, and released. They’re going to question him some more tomorrow.”

Blaine still felt queasy, but scanning through the report – _minor related injuries_ , _released to his family_ , _not considered a suspect at this time –_ was a little reassuring. “Do you think we could call him? From a pay phone or something?”

Cooper shook his head. “The best thing we can do for Sam right now is to leave him alone. If anyone thinks they can get to you, or Mom and Dad, through him…”

Blaine sighed resignedly as they went back to watching the video feeds. The men who’d followed Blaine came back, and all four of the invaders went about trashing the house, pulling out drawers and rifling through cabinets. Blaine winced at the mess.

Cooper clicked his tongue. “Sloppy, inefficient work there. That means we can probably cross government or military clients off the list.”

“The list?”

“My list of suspects. The parents didn’t give me a lot to work with when they sent that last message. I don’t know for sure which client was the problem. Assuming that it is a current client, and not something from a previous job coming back to bite them in the ass.”

Blaine shot him a look. Now it was Cooper’s turn to look guilty. 

“I’ve been kind of out of the loop this last month or so. I told you, I was in Japan. Anyhow, before tonight, I had it narrowed down to a short list of five. The top two contenders were a military contractor out of Texas, and an import-export company in New York.”

“New York. Where that guy who broke into our house was just texting.” 

The pieces were falling into place, and Blaine felt a surge of determination. They had a lead they could follow to New York City. They could do something. He was going to fix this.

Cooper nodded. “Get some sleep. It’s going to be a long drive tomorrow.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Blaine’s last trip to New York had been his Christmas with the Hummels. It had been tentative, sure, but hopeful, and warm in a way that the rest of his vacation hadn’t been. He’d spent one of the last afternoons of his break sitting on the couch in his burgundy cardigan — the one he could convince himself still smelled like a Brooklyn Christmas dinner and Kurt’s aftershave — trying to picture his next trip to the city. Moving there for good as a NYADA student, maybe, or visiting for a heartfelt reunion with his ex. He dreamed of Broadway rush tickets, dinners at cute little restaurants, fervent kisses and whispered promises in Kurt’s loft.

He never would have thought that the next time he saw NEW YORK CITY 200 MILES on a highway sign, it would be in a rental car driven by his brother, who’d turned out to be not just a terrible actor but also an actual international spy. He definitely would not have thought that he would be headed to New York looking unkempt and undergelled, or wearing flannel and baggy jeans. And he certainly would never have imagined that he’d have spent the last fifty miles trying to break himself out of a pair of plastic hand ties.

“You have to push the pin gently into the lock,” Cooper offered unhelpfully from behind his sunglasses. “It’s easy once you get it.”

The straight pin flew out of Blaine’s hand for the fourth time. “Maybe I should practice the steel cuffs again.”

“Not happening, kiddo. You already rocked that one.” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

Blaine had opened the metal handcuffs easily on his first try, and on his second, and his third. They’d switched to the plastic ties after their first rest stop, and any confidence he’d gotten from that early success was gone almost immediately. Cooper’s stories about the time he broke out of a holding cell with only a paperclip and some gum didn’t help much either: knowing Cooper, they were probably all exaggerations, but — actually, _did_ he really know Cooper? 

Cooper’s little smirk was familiar, anyhow. “Stop trying so hard. It’s like – well, okay, maybe sex is a bad metaphor. Singing. You strain too hard to reach a note, it’s never going to sound right.”

“If I can’t hit a note in a song, I can change the key,” Blaine said pointedly. He found the pin on the car floor, but it still wouldn’t go into the cuffs’ locking mechanism.

“Yes, exactly! Change the key. Let’s take your mind off it, okay? We’ll talk OpSec. Operational security. Key part of any mission. We’re going to stay at Westlake’s New York base, which should still be pretty secure, but there are a few basic rules even a beginner can follow. Don’t get in an elevator with one other person: you want it empty or packed. Taking the subway, you wait for the last possible moment to get on or off the train. You wave off the first cab to respond to a hail. You don’t let yourself develop regular routes going anywhere – go out of your way so no one will be able to lie in wait for you. Got it?” 

“I thought you said we lost them.” Blaine’s wrists had gotten sweaty, so he took a break to rub them awkwardly on his jeans. It itched. 

“We did lose them. That’s precisely why we don’t want to let them find us again. Most important, remember to trust your gut. if you feel like you’re being watched, or you’re being followed, you probably are. ”

“How would I know what being followed feels like?”

Cooper looked actually stumped by that. “Good question. I always thought it was some primal instinct, but maybe it’s not. Be careful, is all.”

“Is this how Mom and Dad taught you?” Blaine couldn’t help letting a little bitterness creep into his voice. He’d been thinking about it all morning: how much Cooper had learned from their parents, about their parents, that he never knew.  

“You don’t want to learn how to get out of cuffs the way I learned,” Cooper said, and his voice got dark. “If you’re still struggling with them at our lunch break, I’ll let you out.” He grimaced at the memory, and then shook it off with a bright, forced smile. “Enough of that. Let’s talk about the fun stuff. What do you want for your codename?”

There was really only one option. "You can call me Nightbird."

“That’s what, your superhero name?” Cooper made a face. “I heard about that. Anyone outside your little gang of Mouseketeers going to associate Blaine Anderson with that name?"

Blaine thought back. “Anyone else who might’ve known has probably forgotten about it.”

“Well, it’s a terrible choice, but I’ll give it to you. For now. You’ve been so down about the clothes, you deserve a freebie.”

Blaine sighed and looked down at himself. “The clothes are awful. I feel like I’m drowning in cheap cotton.”

“Good,” said Cooper. “We can’t have you walking around New York looking like Thurston Howell the Gay.”

“Hey!” 

“Seriously, Blaine. If I’m a bad guy sending someone to look for you, what am I going to tell them to be on the lookout for? Slicked-back hair, clean-shaven, dressed up, and short.”

“Average,” Blaine grumbled. The pin was starting to slip into place in the lock. 

“We can’t fix short – _average_ , fine – but we can take care of everything else. Won’t fool a professional with a good-quality photo, but it will slow them down while they check.”

“Are they going to be staking out this base of yours? I thought you said it was secure.” Blaine worked the pin on the cuffs. Something slipped into place, and the pin slid through the lock's teeth.

“I said it _should_ be secure. We’d never meet with a client there, and they shouldn’t know where it is. But they knew where we live in Ohio, and they shouldn’t have known that either. Maybe the New York base is fine, maybe they’ll have people watching it. Better safe than sorry — first rule of OpSec."

Blaine got the pin as far down as he could in the lock. He felt the locking mechanism give, just a little, and pulled at the plastic tie around his left wrist. It loosened, and his hand slid easily free. He waved it triumphantly at his brother.

“That’s great, squirt. Now try it again. Maybe you’ll have it down by the time we reach the city.”

*****

The “New York base” had sounded like an underground superhero lair when Cooper talked about it. But it turned out to be a studio apartment on the seventeenth floor of a building on Third Avenue. It even looked like the kind of place his parents would live – a little fussy, a few too many throw pillows. Blaine found that unexpectedly comforting. 

The apartment was a small box with a half-wall dividing it: on the near side, there was a little kitchen and dining area, living-room furniture clustered over by the window, and on the same wall as the entry door, a long row of cabinets, topped by a light wood shelf. Blaine recognized some of the books stacked carelessly along it, and the stainless-steel cocktail set his dad had at home. He walked over to the far side of the studio: there was a bed and bathroom, and the half-wall turned out to be a long closet, full of clothing and what looked like camping gear.  

“Home sweet home,” said Cooper. He opened the living room curtains, letting the last of the sunset in, and yawned loudly. Then he headed over to the cabinets, opening doors and revealing a bunch of electronic equipment. He hummed a little to himself as he examined the readouts. “Seems like the last time anyone was here was Sunday morning. That lines up: they sent me that message to go get you Sunday night New York time.”

“That’s when they called home too. Said they’d be a few more days.”

“What did they say exactly, do you remember?”

“No.” He’d been at Tina’s house that night, having dinner with her and her family, and he’d accidentally left his phone home. “It was a message. I should have saved it.”

“They wouldn’t say anything worth hearing in a message.” Cooper straightened up and stretched, his hands bracing the bottom of his spine as he curled backwards. “Sometimes the secrecy causes as many problems as it solves.” He sighed and hefted his bag onto his shoulder. “Security’s up and running in here, so we’re safe for tonight, anyhow. You want dinner? There are takeout menus in the kitchen.”

“Isn’t there some way we can get started?” Nine hours in the car, most of them handcuffed or tied up in some other way, had made Blaine itchy to move.

Cooper slugged him on the shoulder. “I like the enthusiasm. We’ll do some defensive fighting drills. But first, I need a shower.”

Dinner was noodles and green shrimp curry delivered from a Thai restaurant: spicy and unfamiliar, but good. There were beers in the near-empty refrigerator, and Cooper took one out for each of them. It was embarrassing how much Blaine appreciated that. It was nice to sit and talk with Cooper about nothing much over beers, to sit at a real table and eat off real plates. It felt like a little bit of normality to hold onto. 

The moment was lost as soon as dinner was done. Cooper finished his beer, pushed back his chair, and moved to the middle of the studio, where he started demonstrating defensive fighting stances. Blaine was confident that he could hold his own in a fight; Dalton had taught him things his parents had never intended when they sent him there. But it was an hour before Cooper declared himself satisfied and went back into the kitchen for a second beer.

“You’ve got some moves, little brother. I knew all that choreography was a good idea.”

“What?”

“Come on. You don’t still think I did Duran Duran song and dance routines with you because Duran Duran are awesome? Which they are. But that’s not the only reason. I figured that no matter how much Mom and Dad wanted to give you a quote-unquote _normal childhood_ , you were still an Anderson, and you were going to need some basic skills. Which, it turns out, I was right about. Again. So, dance classes. Gymnastics classes. Fencing. Riding. Archery."

“Is there a lot of bow hunting in espionage?”

“Aim," said Cooper. "More important than the weapon.”

“I was the one who wanted dance classes,” Blaine insisted. His childhood wasn’t built on some weird secret plot of his brother’s. He’d always loved to dance and sing.

“I know! Which was great. You need coordination and balance a lot in field work, you’d be surprised. So I encouraged you there. And everything else I thought you could use, all I had to do was tell you it was cool, and you were down for it.” Cooper frowned. “I probably should have included some martial arts training too. I didn’t think the parents would go for that, but it would have been a good idea, all things considered.”

Cooper had sent him action-movie DVDs when he was laid up with bruised ribs and a black eye after that first awful Sadie Hawkins dance. Blaine hadn’t watched any of them.

“But you took up boxing on your own,” Cooper continued. “And I have to say, I like your uppercut. Very powerful for such a short – I’m sorry, _average_ – guy.”

There was no point in continuing the conversation if Cooper was going keep being a jerk about it. “I’m taking a shower now,” Blaine said.

“Okay. I’m going to finish this beer and crash.” Cooper stretched again and yawned. “I drove, so I’m claiming the bed, but it’s big enough that we can share, if you’re okay with that. If not, the couch folds out. It’s pretty good for a sleeper sofa.”

“That's okay; we can share. If you don't mind sleeping with Thurston Howell the Gay, that is.” 

“Hey now.” Cooper grabbed Blaine by the arm and gave him his most sincere look. “You’re my brother, and I love you. I changed your diapers, even if it was under protest. The fact that you dress weird is your own business. There’s no part of sharing a bed with you that I’m uncomfortable with, and I’m sorry if my stupid joke made you think that, okay?” When Blaine nodded, he let go of Blaine’s arm and took another swig of his beer. “It's been a long day for both of us. We’ll be better in the morning.” 

“Okay,” said Blaine, mostly mollified. He went into his Wal-Mart bag full of new clothes for his pajamas and clean underwear. “Cooper? We're going to start going after these guys for real tomorrow, right?”

“We didn’t spend all day in that car just so you could practice escape maneuvers,” said Cooper. “It may take longer than either of us want, but the pieces are already getting put in place. I’ve got some queries running. Everything goes right, we’ll do our first recon mission tomorrow.” He smiled as he fell back in big brother mode. “Which is why we both should get some rest, right? I’ll see you in the morning.”

The whole situation hadn’t gotten less disorienting, Blaine reflected as he showered. Cooper’s weird competence wasn’t any less weird, and the idea that his whole family had been lying to him for his entire life was still too big to even wrap his head around. If he saw this on a reality TV show, he’d scoff at how fake it was and change the channel.

But even though it was all so disorienting, it was somehow already becoming a familiar disorientation. Maybe it was seeing his dad’s favorite shaving cream on the sink, or recognizing the sheets on the bed from home. But something had shifted, and it felt like he’d gone from being overwhelmed to really seeing the challenge in front of him. He’d learned to roll with some serious weirdness at McKinley, he reminded himself as he massaged conditioner into his scalp. He was learning how to do it here too. And if his parents were in the sort of trouble Coop thought they were, he was going to need to learn a lot, fast.

His parents. He had spent plenty of time over the last few years telling himself that just because his parents were on the road all the time, that didn’t mean they didn’t care. When he’d realized that Burt Hummel was home more than his own dad was, and Burt’s job was in Washington, D.C., he’d told himself that it wasn’t a fair comparison. Now he didn’t know what to think. True, it wasn’t ideal to have his parents gone all the time, especially now that he didn’t have a boyfriend to enjoy the empty house with. But “freelance international espionage” did seem like a better reason for it than the stupid marketing stuff they said they’d been doing. He wondered how many times he’d sat at home, eating his dinner for one, while they were in the same sort of danger that they were in now. He wondered if Lima bored them. He wondered if he bored them too. Maybe that was why they’d never told him the truth.

By the time he came out of the bathroom, Cooper was already asleep, sprawled across the bed in a way that would be super annoying if it weren’t a king-sized mattress. Blaine was still a little antsy, so he went into the kitchen to see what he could find. There was a half-full box of chamomile tea, so he put the kettle on to boil.  

When it was ready, he went over to the living room area and stood, looking out the window and drinking his tea. Below him, the traffic headed north on Third Avenue. It was close to midnight, and the city was still so busy. He couldn’t imagine getting used to the thrill of it: all those people with somewhere to go.

Somewhere else, south and east of here, Kurt and Rachel and Santana were at home in their loft in Brooklyn. Blaine looked south out the window as though he could see it. It was strange to be so close to them, and yet in all the important ways no closer than before. 

Maybe Kurt wasn’t alone tonight. Maybe he was in their living room, watching late-night _Golden Girls_ reruns with Adam Crawford. Maybe the TV was off, and they were in Kurt’s room, in bed together. It killed Blaine to think about it: Kurt’s long legs wrapped around someone else, Kurt murmuring hotly in some other boy’s ear. But he knew he had no one to blame for that but himself. He hoped Adam would at least be good for Kurt, that he could be devoted and faithful where Blaine had stumbled.  He hoped that if he ever met Adam, he would manage to be a gentleman about it, even if he sort of wanted to punch him really hard in the face. 

_Maybe_ , Blaine thought, _once all of this is over, I’ll go by the loft and say hi._ He traced a heart on the window glass, feeling like a fool for being so sentimental, but no less determined. Somewhere out there in the darkness were his mom, his dad, and the guy he still loved, and he was absolutely going to see all of them again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Blaine woke up the next morning to find Cooper, still wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a ratty old t-shirt, tapping away at a laptop at the dining table. Annoyingly, he looked no less handsome than usual. Blaine rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Coffee’s on,” Cooper told him. “I’ve been going through the case file on this import-export company. And I’ve left a couple of signals for Mom and Dad.”

“Signals?”

Cooper shrugged. “I’ve got a Twitter bot that mostly spews random numbers, but when I need it, I have it send a meaningful string. If Mom and Dad just dumped their SIM cards and not the whole phone when they went to ground, they should get an alert. I’m not counting on that, though, so I also updated my fan site.”

"You run your own fan site?" Blaine had subscribed to email updates from the _Cooper Fan-derson!_ blog ever since his brother’s visit to McKinley. Better to know exactly what the latest Cooper news was himself before Kurt or anyone else told him about it. The site admin was – or said she was, anyhow – a high-school girl in Montana called Kristyn. All of her posts were bubbly and positive, and they tended to involve emoji and _OMG!!_ and lots of sparkle.

“I wouldn’t trust anyone else with it. Kristyn's one of my best inventions: really quality work, don’t you think?” Cooper angled the screen to show Blaine the new post. It was titled _Cooper in Japan: EXCLUSIVE first pics!!_   “Anyhow, the update has some coded phrases that’ll let them know you’re safe, and we’re here. We’ll leave some real-world signals as well, in case they’re still in New York.”

“Like a candle in the window?”

“Something a little less cliché, but yes, that’s the general idea.” Cooper grinned. “I finally get to teach you tradecraft! Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”

“Except for the part where our parents are in possibly mortal danger.”

“If you can’t enjoy your work when it gets difficult, then you shouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Get your breakfast, and we’ll go over the plan.”

LMS Wholesale Traders Inc. had an office down in the Financial District and a website that no one had updated in a really long time. 

“They said they were concerned about security procedures around some valuable shipments. Right up our alley. Referred to us by Chris Brewster, another former intelligence officer — one of the good guys — so that was a plus too.” Cooper scrolled through a set of files on his laptop screen. “Not a lot in the notes, but Dad took lead on the op, and you know how he is.”

> _March 11, 2013 - First meeting with LMS CEO Michael Kosloff. Chris Brewster referred in, Chiton program. Standard meet and greet. Office in old office tower, typical vents and weaknesses. Alarm only on front door. Suggest upgrade if hired._
> 
> _March 20, 2013 - Submitted bid for security work – HumInt with dockworkers, office team; standard sweep for intrusive tech, vulnerabilities._
> 
> _April 8, 2013 - New request from Kosloff: impressed by bid, but wanted something different all along, it seems. New parameters. Now revising bid to cover sensitive courier activities._
> 
> _April 12, 2013 - Interesting opportunities around courier program._
> 
> _April 18, 2013 - First meeting about courier work: Bradley only. Many familiar faces. Opportunities and challenges larger than previously expected. Said as much to Brewster. Travel for Serena next._

There was all sorts of stuff Blaine didn’t know about his dad. But it turned out every version of him was still a man of few words. 

“That’s not a lot to go on, so we’re going to have to get in that office for ourselves,” said Cooper. “A little on-the-ground intel, a little keylogging, we’ll have everyone safe and sound at home by Monday.”

“Which reminds me, I’m going to need some sort of note for school.”

Cooper gave him a pained look and continued. “I pulled some schematics for their building from the DOB. If they haven’t upgraded that alarm yet, we’re okay for another way in. Which is what we need to talk about.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have an idea, but it puts you in a certain amount of risk. A significant amount, if things go wrong. Not that I think they will, but... you have no field experience, and Mom and Dad asked me to look out for you. So if you’re not comfortable with it, say so.”

Cooper was giving him the sort of intense look Blaine associated with some of his less successful acting exercises. “What’s the idea?” he asked skeptically.

“You’re going to break in through the air vents.”

Finally, something about this that was actually cool. “I’m in.”

Cooper frowned. “You should at least have pretended to think about it a little.”

“Cooper! We’re helping Mom and Dad. I’m in.”

“All right,” Cooper sighed. “All right. We already have most of the equipment here. But we’re going to have to go shopping at least once. You’re going to need some better-fitting pants.”

Blaine managed to restrain himself from actually jumping up and down at that, but it was kind of a close call. 

*****

The mission had sounded amazingly cool and super-spy when Cooper described it: get inside LMS’s building after everyone had left for the day, enter the vent system from the shared bathroom down the hall, then come out inside the CEO’s office. Once he was inside, he’d install a keylogger on the CEO’s computer so they could track him, and search for anything that could be a clue to Mom and Dad’s whereabouts. Cooper went through the apartment’s closets and cabinets and found him a communication headset, a utility belt for tools, and a jeweled ladybug pin that worked as a tracker. “Made that one for Mom,” he’d shrugged when Blaine side-eyed him. “Lady bug, get it?”  

Getting into the building had been easy — the doorman barely blinked at them — but everything since then had been downhill. It turned out that were a lot of things about climbing through air vents that movies and TV shows never covered. First of all, they were filthy. Dust piled on dust, coating every surface and hanging like grey icicles from the ceiling. Cooper had given him a hat and safety goggles and a facemask, and it was still gross. Second, they were narrow: Blaine understood why Cooper couldn’t have taken his place the minute he peered inside. 

The third problem, and the scariest, was that the vents were clearly not meant to hold the weight of a grown human being, no matter how many times he’d seen television burglars crawling through (spotlessly clean and spacious) air vents like it was no big deal. In reality, the metal beneath him buckled a little at his weight, and every time he crawled forward, the whole vent shuddered. He had to go very slow, and not think at all about falling the nineteen floors to the boiler and a horrifying death. _Because that wasn’t even what would happen,_ he reminded himself. He’d fall to the floor below him, and maybe break a few bones at worst. It was sad that he found that almost reassuring.

“Okay, keep going, keep going, over.” The fourth problem, and definitely the most annoying, was having Cooper in his ear, directing. Cooper had stayed in the bathroom, and was sitting in one of the toilet stalls, laptop open, tracking Blaine through the vents. 

“How much further?” Blaine whispered.

“Should be one more vent and you’re there, confirm.”  Blaine crawled forward as slowly as he could. When he got to the next vent, he reached for the flashlight hanging awkwardly from the utility belt around his hips. When he managed to get it disentangled, he peered into the office below. There was nothing saying LMS that he could see, but it seemed like the right size and shape from Cooper’s blueprints. The vent opened onto a big office, with an imposing wood desk covered in stacks of papers and folders. Beyond that, Blaine knew, there was an outer office, larger, and a small waiting area. He turned the flashlight to see what was below him and nearly gasped. It was a tall, wide filing cabinet, right where he needed it to get out. This was all going to work out okay.

“Base, I'm in position,” he whispered.

“Roger that, Nightbird. What's the situation, entrance-wise? Over.”

Blaine ran the flashlight beam over the back of the air duct vent. It was attached to the duct with flat screws held in place with bolts, just like the one in the bathroom. “As expected.” The utility belt also included a small tools pack, with a wrench and pliers, so getting the vent open was fairly simple work. “I’m going in. Uh, over.”

“Nightbird, hold that,” said Cooper. “Make sure you know where all those bolts and screws are for later.”

“I know that.”

“And brush yourself off before you head in. You’re probably filthy.”

“I’d noticed,” Blaine said bitterly. “How am I going to clean myself off in here? It’s only going to make more of a mess.”

“Do what you can: we can't have you leaving tracks. Out.” Cooper’s radio clicked silent.

Blaine grudgingly brushed at the dust on his chest, his arms, and his knit cap before he carefully crawled out of the vent and onto the top of the filing cabinet. He dusted himself off a little more and swept the dust behind the cabinet. “Base, I’m inside.”

“Copy that, Nightbird. Let’s get started.”

Blaine looked down at the five-foot drop from the top of the file cabinet to the floor. It would make a lot of noise if he jumped, he told himself, which was why he held onto the edge and took a slow backflip to the ground. It was certainly not because it felt super-cool to do it, even with the utility belt clanking at his sides. Take _that_ , Coach Roz. He pulled his gloves a little more snug, swung the flashlight around, and got to work.

The first part was easy enough. Kosloff’s desk was a mess – folders barfing out paper, crumpled-up receipts, and napkins with the logos of fast-food chains. Blaine held up his flashlight and took pictures of things that looked like they could be relevant. Shipping manifests, receipts for airline tickets, invoices, and a pile of receipts from a restaurant called Natalya’s. On the side of the desk sat a computer monitor and a keyboard, dusty with crumbs. Blaine followed its cables down to a black slab of a computer that hummed and whirred beneath the desk. Cooper had given him a simple-looking plastic cylinder, with connectors on each side. It looked like part of a computer cable – which, Cooper had explained, was the whole idea. Blaine removed the cable connecting the computer to the monitor and keyboard, attached Cooper’s device, and plugged the whole thing back in. Then he came back up from under the desk and hit the spacebar on the keyboard. The monitor blinked to life. “Base, testing now. Come in.”

“Affirmative, Nightbird. Testing keylogger signal. Can you type a few letters? Anything.”

Blaine thought for a second and then typed _you sing funny._

“Hah hah, very cute. Between this and my packet sniffer, we’ll own their network and know everything he does on that computer.”

Blaine thought _packet sniffer_ sounded kind of dirty, but he kept it to himself. “I’m going to look around.”

“Roger that.”

The drawers on the left hand side of the desk were full of random things: medicines, rubber bands, staples, and a whiskey bottle. On the right hand side, the bottom drawer was empty, and the top one was locked. “Base, I’ve found a locked drawer – hold on.” There wasn’t a lock anywhere he could see. He tried opening and closing the bottom drawer again, making sure it was firmly shut: no change. Then inspiration struck, and he knelt down alongside the desk, feeling along the inside of the shelves for a latch. At the far end of his reach, he found it. “Cancel that. It's open.”

“You picked the lock yourself?”

“Negative, Base. It was just a latched drawer. Like Da– uh, the senior officer has back at the home base.”

“Does he, now.” Blaine could almost hear Cooper’s smile.

“Well, yeah,” said Blaine. “That's where he keeps the butterscotches.” When Blaine was very small, he'd gotten a butterscotch candy as a treat after every time he practiced the piano: he still liked to go take one after he learned a new piece.

“I guess certain things really are instinct,” said his brother. 

Blaine knew Cooper didn't mean his sweet tooth; he meant finding hidden things, getting in where you shouldn't. Espionage. The family business. The idea made him feel proud, and then weird, and then proud again. He held the latch down and the drawer slid open easily.

“So what's in the drawer?”

“One thing at a time, Base. I'm getting there.” Blaine pointed his flashlight at the drawer's contents. There was a locked metal box, a handful of matchbooks from that same Natalya’s restaurant, some loose cash, and a stack of passports with the words ECONOMIC COMMUNITY OF WEST AFRICAN STATES (ECOWAS) REPUBLIC OF LIBERIA on the cover. Blaine opened the top one. The photo showed a glowering bald white man, and the text on the facing page said he was named Spencer Nathans. A red stamp at the top of the page said “Diplomat.” Blaine frowned: would Liberia have a white guy with a broken nose as one of its diplomats? He took a picture of it.

The next one beneath it was the same, and the one beneath that, and the one beneath that. Stern-looking men and women, white, black, and Asian, all listed as Liberian diplomats. Blaine kept photographing.

“Nightbird, come in. What's your status? Over.”

“I've found something a little weird, Base.” The next passport showed a picture of a familiar middle-aged man with wavy gray hair, heavy eyebrows, and bright blue eyes. BRADLEY ANDERSON, Diplomat. “Okay. Okay.” He took a deep breath before he opened the next one. His mother’s face stared back at him. SERENA ANDERSON, Diplomat. He photographed both passports, his hands trembling. They’d found something – what, he didn’t know, but he could tell that it was important. That it was going to help.

“Nightbird, come in, come in, please. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Base. I’ve got something. I think it’s important. Should I take it, or – ”

“Negative. Just photographs. Then check the file cabinets and let’s get you out of there.”

Blaine finished photographing the passports and carefully stacked them back in place. He pocketed one of the matchbooks, and he closed the drawer. Back to the wide file cabinet beneath the vent: the bottom drawer was locked, but the top two were open, and he looked through the folders. “This is pretty standard stuff so far, Base, but the bottom cabinet is locked. Over.”

“Try the same moves you used to unlock the steel handcuffs. Shouldn’t be much harder. I’ll talk you through it. Over.”

Blaine took the little lockpick from his tool case and carefully inserted in the lock. Less than a minute later, the drawer was open. He was a lock picker now: Cooper had barely helped at all. He imagined himself going home, with his parents safe and found, and showing off everything he’d learned to Sam. They were going to have to figure out some new superhero mission soon, just because they could.

There wasn’t much of anything in the lower file cabinet drawer, though: only a bunch of metal briefcases, each with serious-looking locks that had been left open. The first few he tried were all empty, each with different configurations of foam padding inside, and Cooper called off the search.

“We’ve got what we’re going to get here,” he said. “Let’s call it a night. Leave everything you can where you found it, okay? Over.”

“Roger that, Base. Over.” He was definitely going to have to remember the walkie-talkie lingo for Sam too.

Back at the apartment, they downloaded the pictures onto Cooper’s laptop, and Coop whistled in appreciation as he flipped through them. “These are some serious heavy hitters.”

“What does Liberia have to do with any of it?”

“No idea.” Cooper shrugged. “I know this Africa specialist at MI-6, a guy named Tennison. He owes me a favor, so we’ll ask him. I don’t think I have an up-to-date number, though, and I’m not even sure he’s still in Nairobi anymore, so it may take us a day or so to reach him. But between that and everything else you got from that office, I think we’re well underway.” Cooper reached over and ruffled his still under-gelled hair. “You did great work tonight, squirt. About as good as a first mission could be.”

“Really?” He'd been pretty sure he'd done well, but it was still nice to hear it. To know he could be just as good as any of them at spying, given the chance. 

“Really. I’m proud of you. And I know Mom and Dad will be too.” Cooper yawned. “Man. I need to either crash or get a second wind. How about we head down to the Village, grab some dinner, and then – oh, you have a fake ID, right?” 

“A bar?”

“Not just a bar, Blainey, _the_ bar. I found it on a trip here last summer, and I’ve been wanting to take you ever since. It’s this total dive, but it’s a sing-along piano bar. You’re going to love it.”

Memories of that awful night at Callbacks with Kurt swam behind his eyes. “You don’t mean – it’s not a NYADA hangout, is it?”

“No, of course not. Why – do you want to go to a NYADA bar? Creep on your ex a little?”

Blaine just glared.

“Actually, it’s mostly a gay bar, which was supposed to be a nice surprise for you, but now you’ve ruined it.” Cooper made an exaggerated grimace of long-suffering. “Are you in?”

Blaine thought about it. He was a successful field operative now, after all, and that certainly did deserve a celebration. “Okay. I’m in.”

His brother reached up and high-fived him. “The Anderson brothers, in the field and on the town. We are unstoppable!” Cooper’s grin was bright and irresistible, and Blaine had to smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Twitter bots](http://www.theawl.com/2013/03/spy-twitter-is-weird-twitte) like Cooper's are a real thing, and the latest descendents of [numbers stations.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Numbers_station)


	6. Chapter 6

The diner was dark and wood-paneled, and quiet at eleven on a Friday morning, when everyone was either at work or not yet ready for lunch. The only other patrons were a few older women, in groups and on their own. Blaine stared down at his coffee cup and waited for the pounding in his head to subside. Next time, he was going to stop at three beers. Three only. No more.

“Decided what you want yet? I’m a fan of the Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon - you get your carbs and your omega-threes.” Cooper was smiling when he came back from the bathroom. Cooper had been smiling all morning. 

Blaine hated him so much.

“Drink your coffee, squirt; you’ll feel better.” Cooper waved down the waitress with a hand gesture and a winning smile. “Could we get two of the Eggs Benedict with salmon, and a big glass of ice water for my friend here? Thanks so much.”

Blaine winced and drank his coffee. 

“You really need to build up more of a tolerance; it comes in handy in the – ” Cooper waggled his fingers for emphasis “– _family business_. There are a few tricks you can use to slow down the rate of alcohol absorption, but to be honest, they’re all kind of gross. It’s easier to learn how to handle your booze.”

“I wasn’t that bad.” 

Mary’s Cafe Bar had been everything Cooper said it was: dirty, dark, crowded, and _amazing_. They’d ordered their first round at the bar while the piano player discussed the next song with a customer, an older guy with a potbelly. Finally, they agreed, and the potbelly guy started on the first notes of “Oh What A Beautiful Mornin’.” His voice was incredible: rich and powerful and controlled, in a way that would take years of training and effort. Blaine had stopped to listen, stunned, his beer halfway to his mouth.

“Not everyone’s that good, not by a long shot,” Cooper had whispered. “But I did see Alan Cumming the last time I was in here.” 

Blaine had suddenly found his new favorite bar. 

They’d made their way over to the piano, where someone recognized Cooper as the guy from the credit report commercials.  Cooper had sung the jingle, and then of course they were in, welcomed among the regulars who monopolized the seats. When the singer wasn’t great, or sometimes even when he was, they all joined in on the song. Cooper had led the group through a rousing version of “Comedy Tonight,” and Blaine had duetted on “Some Enchanted Evening” with a giggly French girl tourist. The beers kept coming, and it was at some point after the third one that Blaine had convinced the piano player to let him take a solo on “Somewhere That’s Green,” from _Little Shop of Horrors_. Everything after that was a little fuzzy.

“You weren’t that bad,” Cooper conceded now. “Not a sloppy drunk or anything. I didn’t realize you were still so hung up on Kurt, though.”

“We’re just friends,” Blaine said rotely.

“Sure. And last night you poured your heart into a song about domestic happily-ever-after just _because_.”

“It’s a good song.”

“Tell it to someone who hasn’t been listening to you sing since ‘The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.’ You want to talk about it?”

The bell on the diner door jingled as someone walked in, and for a split-second Blaine somehow expected it to be Kurt: Kurt, dressed for work in the big city, glamorous, quicksilver, out of reach. But it was just another senior citizen in a twinset.

“Maybe,” said Blaine. “Not now. After.”

The waitress came back with Blaine’s water. Cooper reached over and gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Okay,” he said. “But just so you know, when you’re ready, you can do a lot better than that guy you were talking to last night.”

Blaine frowned. He remembered talking to a man over by the bar: a friendly, tall, older guy, maybe in his thirties, with hipster glasses and salt and pepper hair. They’d discussed Alan Menken and the Broadway version of _The Lion King_. “I wasn’t trying to do anything, other than talk to him.”

“And you didn’t realize – ? Oh, Blainey, you really need to learn to hold your liquor. The hand on the arm thing he was doing was not subtle.”

“Was that why you insisted on a duet? You thought you were protecting me?”

“I _was_ protecting you: that guy was way too old for you, and probably a skeeze. And I wanted to sing with you, too.” Cooper had pulled him away from the conversation for their last number of the night, a rendition of “Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better).” Which, looking back, Blaine had to admit, they’d totally nailed.

“I don’t need your help,” Blaine grumbled as their food arrived.

“Sure.” Cooper picked up his knife and fork and shot Blaine that irritatingly chipper grin. “Come talk to me when you’re ready to really start dating again, squirt. I make an excellent wingman.” 

*****

Back before Blaine had ever suspected his parents were anything other than market research specialists, Cooper would call him sometimes with questions about technology. He would ask for help with his phone, or how to use Snapchat, or where to find pirated TV on the Internet. Their first night on the road, it became clear that “tech doofus” was just another part of Cooper’s cover identity, though why Cooper had dragged his little brother into it, Blaine tried not to guess. But since they’d gotten to New York, Blaine realized that Cooper was more than just not a doofus. Cooper knew more about computers than anyone else he’d ever met. 

Right now, Cooper was sitting on the couch in the studio apartment with three laptops open on the coffee table in front of him. He had his glasses on instead of his usual contacts, and he was frowning at the text scrolling by on his screens. “So, there’s nothing useful yet from his email or their bank accounts, but there are a lot of other red flags. So far today, most of the international traffic going to IP addresses in Moscow, and all over Africa. But not Liberia, weirdly, and not anywhere in the EU except Luxembourg. Most of LMS’s invoices are with European companies.” Cooper shook his head. “This is not good.”

“Do you have any theories?” Blaine was practicing pickpocketing on a mannequin Cooper had brought up from a basement storage area. It was wired to be sensitive to touch, so it was like playing Operation in 3D, taking something from the mannequin’s jacket pocket. Cooper said it was a useful skill for a brush-pass. Blaine thought maybe his brother just liked the buzz the thing made when he failed. 

“Oh, I have a bunch of theories. But none of them explains more than part of the picture.” Cooper sighed. “And I still can’t figure out why they would need all these heavy hitters to act as couriers. Dad said the courier work had ‘opportunities larger than expected.’ What kind of opportunities, Dad? Geez.”

“So all those people with the diplomatic passports, those are the couriers?” Blaine walked past the mannequin again and reached for the papers in its pocket. _Bzzzzz._

“You’ll never get it using your thumb like that. Try again.” Cooper shook his head. “Diplomatic passports are like get-out-of-jail-free cards. Literally. You can’t be detained, and your bags can’t be searched. Ideal for moving contraband around the world, right? But that’s the whole reason they’re hard to get, and hard to forge.”

“Okay. So why Liberia? Are theirs easier to forge or something?”

“Not as far as I’ve ever heard. And those look pretty legit, though it’s hard to tell for sure from a photo.” Cooper sighed. “Liberia’s a big hub for merchant shipping, and LMS is supposed to be in import/export. So that could be part of it. But I don’t know how it fits in with everything else.” 

“Then what do we do next?” 

Cooper typed something else into one of the laptops and frowned. “We wait. I’ve got a message in with my contact in Africa. And I’ve been trying to reach Chris Brewster, the guy who referred us to LMS in the first place, but he’s not answering my calls. Which could mean he’s on the run too, or he’s just avoiding me.”

Blaine lifted the papers using just his middle and ring fingers. The buzzer stayed silent. 

“Getting there,” said Cooper. He stood up. “Ugh, I need to get out of this apartment. Clear my head. Want to go for a run?” 

Blaine shook his head. “I want to practice this.” He’d kind of figured it out, and he now he wanted to get good at it. He had a lot of lost time to make up for.

“Good man. The glamorous Friday nights of real espionage, right?”

“We were out till three last night, Coop.”

“You know what I mean. Hey, you want me to handcuff you behind your back so you can practice slipping the cuffs around to your front again?”

“No, thanks: I think I’m good on that one.” He put the papers back in the mannequin’s pocket and reset the sensors. “I’m just going to work on this.”

“All right. I’ll catch you later, then.” Cooper had already gone back to the bedroom area to change when his phone started vibrating, hopping up and down on the coffee table next to the computers, and he ran back out, half-dressed, with a tube sock in one hand. “Hello?”

Blaine tried to focus on brushing past the mannequin quicker this time; grabbing the papers smoothly and discreetly was a lot harder at a regular walking pace. 

“Hey, thanks! Yeah.... No, I was hoping to talk to Tennison.” Cooper nodded impatiently as the person on the other end of the line talked. “Yeah.... No, it’s – we haven’t spoken in a while.... Really? Why?... oh, of course, of course, I understand you can’t say.... Uh-huh.... Okay, thanks so much. I appreciate it.” 

“Well?” Blaine asked.

“You’re not going to believe this, but he’s here in New York.” Cooper shook his head and entered another number. “Lulu! How’s the greatest living Englishwoman?” He laughed at the answer. Everything about Cooper — the way he stood, the angle of his head, all of it changed when he started consciously pouring on the charm. It was perversely fascinating to watch. “Sweetheart, I have a very small favor to ask of you. One of your boys — my friend Paul. Could you tell me what he’s up to today?… No, I just need to reach out to him, and I’m passing through…. Yes, in New York…. Oh! Well, if I can, sure. Okay. That would be great…. Okay, hold on a sec.” He sat down on the couch again and opened a text file on the center laptop. “Shoot.”

When he was done on the phone, thanking whoever it was profusely, he turned to his brother with a triumphant expression. “Put the dummy away, kid. We’re going out.” 

*****

“I don’t know why MI-6 would station Paul Tennison in New York,” Cooper repeated as they walked up Eighth Avenue. “He was born in Zimbabwe. He went to school back in the UK, but he really understands sub-Saharan Africa. I thought he had a bright future there.”

“You’ve been to Africa?” Blaine had only ever been to London, once, on a family vacation.

“A few times. Work-related. Less exciting than you’re thinking it was, I guarantee. Now, we’re good on what your role is here?”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Be quiet, listen, poker face, man of mystery. I can totally do it.”

Cooper had told him _try to look dangerous_. So Blaine had done what he could with his limited supplies: got the scruff of his incipient beard down to a well-groomed stubble, put on the all-black outfit from the break-in, and smoothed down the worst of his hair with some cut-rate drugstore-brand hair gel. Still, his brother looked not entirely convinced. “I’m serious. No talking, no questions, just listen.”

“Cooper, I get it.” Blaine had managed an actual break-in; now his brother was questioning his ability to observe quietly? “I’m going to be fine.”

They came to a corner occupied by a restaurant with wide windows and a makeshift patio delineated by a row of planters. It was a nice enough evening that most of the patio tables were occupied. Cooper made a beeline for one on the outside edge of the space, where a tall sandy-haired man sat alone. 

“What’s good here?” Cooper asked as he slid into a chair. 

“Dinner for one,” said Paul Tennison. He looked calm, like things like this happened to him every day, but Blaine figured that if you were a spy, the first thing you’d have to learn was not to show when someone startled you. He was watching the street, like he was looking for someone or something, and he barely turned to notice them at all.

“Aw, that’s not nice. And we’ve come so far to see you.”

“Now is not the time, I’m afraid.” 

“You know what’s funny, though? If I’d said that to you the last time you called me, you’d still be in a maximum-security Senegalese penal camp.” Cooper said this in a matter-of-fact tone, like he was reporting the weather.

Paul sighed and turned to face the two of them for the first time. “Fine. Hello, Cooper. What do you want? And who’s your friend?”

“Oh, he’s a new contractor with Westlake. Marco Silvestri, Paul Tennison.”

Blaine nodded with what he hoped was an Italian flair. 

“A contractor,” Paul repeated. He stared at Blaine quizzically for a moment, then returned his gaze to Cooper. “I’m expecting another guest. When he comes, you leave.”

Cooper shrugged. “Maybe he wants to meet a TV star. You never know.”

“Cooper…” Annoyance sounded just the same in an English accent as it did in an American. 

“All right, all right. So I’ll talk fast.” Cooper dropped his voice to a hush. “What would you say if you came across a cache of Liberian diplomatic passports, issued to people who are decidedly not Liberian citizens?”

“That’s still going on? I thought that had ended.”

“Not helpful,” Cooper said.

Paul took a deep breath. “Liberia’s had some problems in the recent past with brokers selling diplomatic credentials to the highest bidder. They’ve claimed it’s fraudulent, not from inside the government, but the passports are good.”

“Who’s buying?”

“Oh, the usual. Criminals, gunrunners, and diamond buyers.”

Cooper frowned. “Liberia’s had Kimberley Process inspectors breathing down their neck since the civil war.”

“And you see how well that’s been working.” Paul shook his head. “Besides, you’d really want Liberian diplomatic credentials to get around elsewhere. Not just border crossings, but travel inside places like Zimbabwe or the DRC, with larger diamond mines and even more chaos. Makes you important, untouchable, but not caught up in their internal battles.”

Blaine gave what he hoped was a thoughtful and considered nod. They hadn't covered any of this in the International Politics seminar he took back at Dalton.

“There was this one bloke who used them a lot. We went after him for about a year, never came close.” A waitress started toward them; Paul waved her off apologetically. “Anyhow, he was said to have some deep ties into the Liberian administration – maybe he got his passports cheaper than everyone else. So he would buy conflict diamonds from the warlords, get them to the States and Canada for laundering, then use the money for weapons that he sold right back to the warlords. Ran some sort of shipping business as a cover, I forget now. But when Canada started cracking down on gray-market diamonds, he went to ground.”

An unwanted memory cut in: _Jan, at the jewelry store, saying “well, you certainly wouldn’t want to get him a conflict diamond, would you?"_ Blaine had to force himself back to focus on the present. 

“Was this guy one of yours?” Cooper asked. “Some misguided chav?”

Paul bit back a laugh. “You almost pronounced that right. I’m impressed. No, this one was a Russkie, which was part of the problem we had running him down – it’s pretty easy to buy friends in Russia. So the hopped-up little shit got away. Might come back on the scene at any time. I wouldn’t know now, being in America.”

“What are you doing here, anyhow?”

“It’s sweet that you think I’d tell you,” Paul said. “The cousins know I’m here, don’t worry.”

“I figured as much. Your chief of station here doesn’t like cowboys.” Cooper leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, this Russian. If I followed that lead, who would I be looking for?” 

“He goes by ‘Shumba,’ which is Shona for ‘The Lion.’ As if he ever spoke a word of Shona in his life.” Paul looked disgusted. “His actual name is Lev Mikhailovich Sergeyev. Ugly little man, ugly inside and out. Based in Moscow, last I heard, but he had people in the US to handle the laundering.”

“Any people in particular?”

“That wasn’t our angle, sorry. But if you’re looking for corrupt Russians in America, you know where to start.”

“Brighton Beach?” said Cooper.

“Brighton Beach,” said Paul. He smiled for the first time, a small, almost rueful thing. “Are we done now? Because as thrilling as this conversation has been, I’d much rather not — oh, hello, Juan.” A short, wiry man had walked up to the table and was staring down at Paul intensely. He had his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, and he was pointing them at Paul like fists.

“You must come with me now,” said Juan. “All of you.”

“My friend here is a television actor,” Paul said, still calm. “And his boyfriend. They’re not part of this.”

“All of you,” Juan repeated. 

He swung towards them, and Blaine could see that it wasn’t his hand he was pointing at Paul through his jacket, it was a gun. He took a sharp, deep breath. 

“My friends are waiting,” Juan said. He tilted his head towards the street. Two other Latino men waited by a red van. They had their hands in their jackets too. “The boss wants to see you. Let’s go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Liberian diplomatic passports for sale: [http://www.washdiplomat.com/index.php?option=com_content&id=8316&Itemid=451](http://www.washdiplomat.com/index.php?option=com_content&id=8316&Itemid=451) and <http://www.economist.com/blogs/baobab/2012/08/liberia>
> 
> The Kimberley Process: [A Wikipedia overview.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kimberley_Process_Certification_Scheme)
> 
> This summer, I posted a video of Alan Menken and Tonya Pinkins performing “Somewhere That’s Green” to my Tumblr. I don’t think Blaine could pull off this vocal performance (very few people could!) but I imagine that if he played the song on the piano himself, he’d use a very similar arrangement: <http://chiasmuslovesme.tumblr.com/post/56064024149/tonya-pinkins-tony-award-winner-for-caroline-or>


	7. Chapter 7

Blaine didn’t know how long they were in the van: not that long, and he didn’t think they’d gone over a bridge. He tried to keep track of where they were, but he didn’t know New York that well, and the map in his head fell apart pretty quickly. Cooper and Paul had some sort of conversation in silent head tilts and eyebrow lifts while their captors watched. Blaine didn’t know what they were saying, but they seemed to come to an agreement. When the van stopped, Cooper whispered “Follow my lead” in Blaine’s ear, so Blaine fell back, walking a step behind his brother as they got herded into a warehouse. At least Paul looked confident. They might still get out of this alive.

There was a man waiting for them as they came in, an older man with greasy hair and an ill-fitting suit. “I see you made it,” he said to Paul. “And you brought friends. So considerate.”

“What’s going on?” Paul demanded. “I’m a British citizen, and —”

“Spare us both the cover story,” the man said. “You are a British spy.”

“I’m a university student.”

Juan punched him in the stomach for that. Paul staggered a little, but stayed standing. 

“You are a spy,” the older man repeated. “You try to recruit my friend Juan to do your dirty work for you, to hand over me and my customers. But he is too smart. He tells me everything. Just like you are going to tell me everything.”

Paul wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “None of this has to concern you, _señor_. I’m not interested in your activities. Only one of your customers.”

“And he will be very interested in you,” the man said. When Paul said nothing in reply, the man nodded like it was what he was expecting. “You and your friends, you are professionals.”

“What? I’m on TV,” said Cooper.

“Even better,” the man said. “More innocents.” 

Paul stiffened.

“Juan, Leo, go bring out our guest,” the man said. He looked right at Paul. “You will tell me what you know, or you will watch them all die.”

Blaine felt frozen to the spot. He couldn’t fight these guys: they had guns. Cooper and Paul had come up with a plan, right? All the stories Cooper had told him on the drive to New York, all the escapades and great escapes: some of them had to be true. Cooper looked wary, but not terrified, so Blaine tried to match his expression. He was going to survive this.

Juan and Leo came back with a prisoner between them, struggling, shouting against a gag, head down. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was dragging his feet. It couldn’t be, but he looked like — 

“You should tell your boyfriend to be less predictable, Mr. Tennison,” the man said. “Or should I say, Adam Crawford?”

Blaine couldn’t breathe. 

“You’re a fool,” said Paul. “Do you have any idea who his father is? You’ve just kidnapped the son of a United States congressman.”

Kurt lifted his head. His face was dirty, and he looked angry and determined and terrified all at once. When he saw Blaine, he struggled harder and his voice got louder behind the gag. 

“Shut him up,” said the older man.

Kurt was struggling harder, still shouting. He kept looking from Blaine to Paul to Cooper, his eyes blazing. Blaine wanted to run to him, do anything, but Cooper’s hand was still pressing into his chest, urging him to wait. Leo smacked Kurt hard across the face, and he went silent.  Blaine clenched his hands into fists at his side.

“Leave him be,” said Paul.

“Wait, hold on, is that Kurt Hummel?” Cooper started walking towards the man in charge, hands spread wide. Everyone stopped to look at him. “Look, I don’t pretend to know what’s going on here. I’m just an actor. Maybe you’ve seen my commercials? My brother and I here —”

“Your _brother_ ,” Paul breathed, and he had some nerve to look betrayed, when all of this was his fault for also being Adam Crawford.

“— We’re just in town visiting friends, seeing the sights, the way you do.”

“Stay back,” the man warned. 

“I’m only trying to understand the situation,” Cooper said, still moving closer. Blaine could see it now: the readiness for action beneath the casual façade. His brother was a much better actor than he’d ever given him credit for. “You don’t get to experience a lot of things like this in my line of work. I could use it if I’m auditioning for a cop show.”

“Stay back,” the man said, and he raised his gun. 

Cooper grabbed his arm, wrenching it hard. “Down!” he shouted.

Paul ran at one of the guards. Blaine ran for Kurt, pulling him down and covering Kurt’s body with his own.  Kurt’s face was tear-streaked, and red from the slap, and his mouth was still gagged. He looked up at Blaine incredulously.

“It’s okay,” Blaine told him. Somewhere above them, a gun fired. Blaine couldn’t help flinching. “Kurt, it’s going to be okay. Cooper knows what he’s doing, I promise.” 

They were both breathing hard, and Kurt was shivering. Blaine put his hand on Kurt’s shoulder and tried to project calm and confidence as the fight went on around them. Blaine couldn’t tell who was winning, and he tried not to guess from the sounds. He lay there, breathing as steadily as he could, his chest across Kurt’s, wearing the calmest, most confident expression he could manage. Kurt still looked scared, but the frantic edge to it leached away, leaving fear and confusion in its place. Blaine tried to just focus on Kurt and staying calm until he heard Cooper calling his name. 

“Blaine! Kurt! You’re okay now. Get up.”

They separated awkwardly. Blaine helped Kurt up, and Kurt shook his head at him, trying to tell him to get the gag off. Blaine tried to untie it, apologizing the whole time for not having done it before, but his hands were shaking too badly. He had to wait for Cooper to come help with a pocket knife.

“What the hell is going on here?” Kurt demanded. His voice was hoarse and scratchy.

“Kurt, I’m so sorry…” Paul started towards him, but Kurt stepped aside.

“What did they want with you? And why did you drag Blaine into this?”

“It’s not like that,” Paul said.

“Kurt, are you injured?” Cooper, all business for once as he finished freeing Kurt’s arms from the ropes. “Do you have any feeling in your fingers? Tingling?”

“I’m fine. I — will someone tell me what the hell is going on here? Adam, what have you done? Do you owe these guys money?” Kurt looked around at the room. The three thugs and their boss were all lying still on the floor. Blaine tried very hard not to notice if they were breathing or not. “Oh, my God. What have you done?”

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” Paul said. “Please, Kurt. Let’s get you somewhere safe and we’ll talk later. I promise.”

“He’s Kurt’s boyfriend,” Blaine said to his brother. The size of the deception was just starting to hit him. “This is Adam Crawford.”

Kurt frowned. “Who did you think he was?”

Blaine was about to tell him when Cooper cut in. “Blaine, _don’t_.”

“We need to get you cleaned up,” Paul said. 

“I want to go home,” said Kurt. He was looking down, rubbing his hands together to get the circulation going. He looked lost.

“You probably shouldn’t,” Cooper told him. “Not yet. We’ll send someone to make sure it’s safe.” He turned to Paul. “Call your chief.”

“You brought your brother with you,” Paul said. He sounded betrayed, which made Blaine even angrier at him.

“Not now.”  

Paul shook his head and took out his phone. “You’re creating danger.”

“Call your chief,” Cooper repeated. Paul walked away to make the call. Blaine glared at his back as he went. 

“I… I should call Santana. She’s got a big date tonight. She’ll be at the loft.” Kurt was in shock; Blaine was practically an expert on the symptoms by now.  “I was supposed to stay at Adam’s. I…”

“You don’t have to,” Blaine said. The idea of letting Kurt go off with Paul — _Adam_ — was intolerable. “You can stay with us.”

Kurt looked at him incomprehendingly. “Blaine. What are you even doing here?”

Cooper put a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “He’s visiting me. It’s all going to be okay now, Kurt. Why don’t we get you out of here?”

They were standing in the loading dock, trying to get a GPS signal, when Paul rejoined them. “It’s taken care of,” he said.  Cooper nodded.

“Adam,” Kurt said. He sounded tired. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah, _Adam_ ,” said Blaine. Anger rose up in his chest, and he didn’t try to tamp it down. “Are you going to tell him? Or should I?”

“Stop it, Blaine.” His brother’s voice had gone tense and hard. 

“It’s all right, Cooper.” Paul sighed. “I’d do the same in his shoes. If I had a brother mad enough to drag me in as a civilian.”

“A what?” said Kurt.

“Don’t tell the guvnor,” Paul said. As he turned to face Kurt directly, he stood up a little straighter. He looked more distant somehow, more imposing. “You’ll hear it all eventually now; might as well get it from the source.” He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I came to you under false pretences, Kurt, and I’m sorry. Nothing of how I feel about you was ever fake, I promise. But I’m not who I told you I was.”

Kurt took a deep shuddery breath. He was always so brave. “Then who are you?”

“I work for the British government. I was in place at NYADA when you… I’ve been Adam Crawford over a year now.”

“Your real name,” Kurt demanded.

“It’s Paul. Paul Tennison.” He looked sad to have to say it. “Kurt. You — my employers asked me about you when you started at school, that’s why we met. Well, that and your voice, of course. It was an easy legend because it was true.”

Kurt shook his head. “What would the British government want with me?”

“Your rather extraordinary run of good luck since you came to New York, your father on the Homeland Security committee, your association with… with my friend Cooper here.”  Paul spread his hand at that, like anyone could tell the list was suspicion-worthy. “They wanted to know if you were something other than what you seemed to be. I had just sent in my report, saying that you were precisely as gifted and brilliant as all your successes suggested, and nothing more, and then you asked me out. I knew I ought not to have said yes. But, Kurt, I can’t be sorry I did.”

Kurt was still staring at Paul in confusion and dismay when the cars pulled up. A group of men and women in suits and sunglasses got out, and most of them headed straight for the warehouse door. One stayed back by the cars, and one came up to Paul. “You’re to stay here,” he said. 

Paul nodded. “My — the hostage, Mr. Hummel. He could use a ride home. If it’s clear.”

The man nodded. “Mr. Hummel,” he said, and gestured to the cars. 

Blaine couldn’t bear to see him leave like that, by himself. “Kurt…”

He didn’t respond.

Cooper reached into his pocket. “Hold on.” He scribbled something on the back of a business card. “That’s us. If you need anything,” he said.

“Thank you,” Kurt said. He held the card in both hands, looking down at it seriously, before he put it away. “Thank you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Paul said.

“You should be,” said Kurt, and he was gone.

*****

“Did you know?” The question had been itching at Blaine all the way home. They’d barely closed the apartment door before he blurted it out.

His brother looked at him like he was crazy. “Did I know what?”

“About Kurt.”

“I told you, I thought Paul was still in Nairobi. And it’s not like I’m tracking Kurt. I wasn’t even tracking him when you were dating. You have your own life.” Cooper gave him a disappointed look and opened one of his laptops.

“They kidnapped him.” It kept playing in Blaine’s head: Kurt getting dragged in from some back room. Kurt screaming against the bandana gagging his mouth. Kurt walking away, resolutely alone. “Because of you, and your stupid friend.”

“Hey.” Cooper looked up sharply. “I had nothing to do with this, and you know it. You’re angry. Fine, I get that. But don’t go blaming me for what a bunch of thugs did.”

“I know.” And he did know. Cooper had been so great in how he’d handled things. He’d walked right into danger and beaten it. That wasn’t anything Blaine could imagine himself doing, no matter how much he trained. “I know. I’m just…”

“You’re angry,” Cooper said, like that explained everything that was roiling Blaine’s insides. 

Blaine sighed and sat down next to him. “I can’t stop thinking: what would have happened if we hadn’t been there? If you hadn’t… You were really great back there, Cooper.”

It wasn’t the easiest thing to say, but it was worth it to see Cooper flush and go weirdly shy. “Ah, it wasn’t my best work. I was improvising. But thank you.” He shrugged. “Paul would have figured something out too. He’s good at his job.”

Blaine let out a harrumph at the thought of Paul being good at his job. If he was so good, how had those people found Kurt in the first place?

“And he could probably kill you with his pinky, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

Blaine frowned. “I wasn’t.” He was still beyond angry, but it wasn’t a fighting sort of mad. Even if he’d thought that would do any good with Kurt, which it wouldn’t.

“There is one thing I want to talk to you about, with what happened today. If you’re up for it.”

“Um, sure?” Blaine said. “Okay. What?”

“You threatened blow Paul’s cover.”

“I didn’t — ”

“You did. Twice.” Cooper rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “And the fact that Paul dealt with the situation by having a goddamned meltdown and breaking the rules left and right doesn’t mean you should too. It’s like the first law of the intelligence community – you honor your fellow operative’s cover. All of that OpSec stuff we went over the first day, with codenames and camouflage and being careful about not taking the same route twice – none of that matters if somebody starts shouting ‘oh hey, look at that guy! He’s not who he says he is!’”

Blaine slumped lower on the couch.

“MI-6 is a major client. They’re not going to work with us if they think we’re going to put their people’s lives at risk.”

“Fine,” Blaine gritted. “I get it.”

“Don’t just say it, kid. This is important.”

“Right.” Blaine could hear the bitterness in his voice, but he didn’t care. “That’s important. The fact that the love of my life got _kidnapped_ and _beaten_ because of some stupid spy games isn't.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Because God forbid anything that affects me, or someone I love, gets in the way of the precious family business. Which, in case you hadn’t noticed, doesn’t include the whole family.” 

“Blaine…”

Everything that had been churning inside him was coming together into a bright ball of sorrow and anger in his chest. And maybe it wasn’t fair that he was aiming its fire at Cooper, but Cooper had started it, and here they were. 

“My whole life,” Blaine said, “I’ve felt like an outsider in my own family. Like whatever I did, no matter how much I tried, I didn’t belong with you. I thought maybe I felt like that because I am different. Because I’m gay. But now I realize, no, it’s not that. It’s because you’re all part of this whole secret life that I never got to be a part of. That I never even got a choice on whether I want to be a part of. And it’s more important to you than I am.”

“Blaine. Baby brother.” Cooper tried to put his arm around Blaine’s shoulders, but it was too much; Blaine couldn’t handle it. He pulled away.

“The only time I ever felt like I was part of something – like I had something that was really mine – was when I was with Kurt. And that’s over.” He stood up, and his legs felt shaky and weak. “I’m going to go lie down.”

“ _Blaine_.” His brother was pleading with him, big-eyed and sad.

“No. Please don’t, okay?” He was managing to keep it under control so far, and that, at least was something to hold onto. “I can’t right now.”

He slipped off his shoes and curled up on his side of the big bed, clutching at the pillow for something to hold. In the other room, he heard Cooper stand up and walk a few steps: a moment later, music drifted in from the far side of the studio. Simone Dinnerstein’s _Goldberg Variations_ , with its slow, deliberate read of the opening aria. Blaine had listened to the recording a hundred times, trying to capture something of its gentle conviction in his own playing. He had talked to Cooper about the record once, trying to explain why he liked it so much. Cooper had told him classical music was dead and boring. He didn’t know now how much of any of that was an act.

The sound of the piano was soothing, and he could feel himself unclenching, just a little. With the adrenaline wearing off, he let it take him to somewhere half between sleeping and waking, where his thoughts went slow and uncomplicated. They were at Variation 15, one of the melancholy minor-key ones, when he heard the intercom buzz. A few moments later, Cooper was there, standing at the foot of the bed.

“That was Kurt,” he said. “He’s coming up.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simone Dinnerstein’s [2007 recording](http://www.amazon.com/Bach-Goldberg-Variations-Simone-Dinnerstein/dp/B000SQJ2X2/) of Bach’s _Goldberg Variations_ , a self-financed record that became a classical best-seller.


	8. Chapter 8

“What?” Blaine sat up so fast it made him dizzy. He pressed his palm flat against the mattress for support. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”  ****

“He didn’t call. He’s just here. Do you want me to take him somewhere else? I can make up a story for why you can’t see him. Food poisoning, or — ”

“No. No.” Blaine rubbed his eyes and stood up. “He can come in. I’m just going to go, you know, wash up.”

“There’s eye drops in the medicine cabinet,” Cooper said. “Good for redness.”

Blaine wasn’t sure what to say to that. In the bathroom, he examined himself: still scruffier than he’d like, and yes, red-eyed, but passable. Nowhere near as bad as he felt. He splashed some cold water on his face, used the eye drops, and fussed with his hair a little, though it didn’t seem to help. Out in the main room of the apartment, he heard the doorbell ring. He stared at himself in the mirror, willing himself to be able to handle whatever was coming next. “Show time,” he muttered, and he opened the bathroom door.

Kurt was standing by the apartment’s front door. He was dressed in the clothes he’d had on at the warehouse: there were dust streaks on his jeans and a rip in his henley. His hair was mostly brushed back into place, although a lock in the front fell loose on his forehead. He looked tense, and he was clutching at the straps of the messenger bag slung across his body. He was still the most beautiful thing Blaine had ever seen. 

“I tried going home,” he said. “But then I got there, and Santana wanted to know what was going on. I tried to explain it but…” He shook his head. “It’s a little too much. So I asked the guy who drove me there if he could take me to your place instead. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course.” Cooper turned to Blaine, who nodded agreement. He didn’t trust his voice yet. 

“Stay as long as you’d like. _Mi_ sleeper sofa _es tu_ sleeper sofa,” said Cooper. He gestured broadly towards the couch. “But if you could turn off your phone, remove the battery, and put it in there –” He pointed to the cocktail set on the cabinet. “In the shaker. It’s a pretty basic signal-blocker. You’re not expecting any urgent calls tonight, right?”

Kurt looked a little dazed. “I guess not,” he said. “Adam — Paul keeps calling me but… I don’t want to talk to him.” He pulled out his phone and disassembled it into the cocktail shaker. Blaine tried not to feel grimly pleased.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Kurt turned to look right at him. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

“Good. That’s, that’s good.”

Cooper clapped his hands together once, brightly. “Well! I wish I could stay and be part of this festival of awkwardness, but I think my presence will only make things worse.” He grabbed his keys and his wallet from the cabinet top where he’d dropped them and headed for the door. “I’ve got my phone if you need me.”

Blaine followed him. “Cooper. You don’t have to.”

“It’s fine, kid.”

“But it’s late. Where are you going to go?”

Cooper grinned at him. “You think you’re the only Anderson brother with a hot ex in New York?” He winked at Blaine’s surprised look, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Blaine turned to face Kurt, who was looking around the apartment, taking it all in. “It’s nice,” he said.

“Thanks. Um, please make yourself comfortable. Do you want something to eat? Maybe some tea? We’ve got that raspberry stuff you liked. Or – ”

“Did you know?” Kurt asked.

“What?”

“Were you lying to me? About…” Kurt waved his hand at the room as though encompassing all the impossible things that had happened to bring them there.

“No. No, of course not. Do you really think I would have lied to you like that? About my parents?”

Kurt gawked at him. “Your parents? I thought it was just Cooper.”

Blaine sighed. “Great. I just got the whole lecture on discretion, too. Look, sit down. I’ll order us some dinner: have you eaten at all?”

“Um, no. I was heading home for lunch when…” He shrugged.

“You must be starving.” There wasn’t much that Blaine could do for Kurt given the circumstances, but at least he could take care of him a little. “We’ll get some food, and I’ll make us some tea, and then we can compare notes. Total honesty, right?” 

“Total honesty,” Kurt said quietly. He pulled his bag off his shoulders and made his way to the couch. “Tea would be nice.”

They ordered burritos, and Blaine put out a plate of cookies and two mugs of raspberry tea. They sat side by side, awkwardly, not looking at each other. “Okay,” Blaine said. “I guess I’ll go first.”

So he told Kurt everything that had happened to him since he woke up on Tuesday morning. He tried not to let his voice shake when he described the men in black who’d broken into the house and knocked out Sam. When he got to the part about his parents being missing and probably in danger, Kurt put a comforting hand on his forearm, and that helped him get through all of Cooper’s revelations in that grungy motel room. He’d talked more about his relationship with his parents with Kurt than with anyone else. It was good to be able to tell him the truth of all the lies he’d lived with now, even if it was hard to admit how completely he’d been duped.

He talked about all the things Cooper was trying to teach him, and all the things that he’d never even guessed his brother could do. When he got to the break-in at LMS, it was hard not to exaggerate the story to make himself sound cooler than he’d been. Kurt made an adorable scrunchy-nosed face at the thought of all the dust in that air vent, so he figured he did okay anyway. Then the story got to Paul Tennison, or Adam Crawford, or whatever his name was. Blaine hesitated.

“You can talk about him,” Kurt said quietly.

So Blaine finished the story, and tried not to notice that Kurt’s eyes were welling up with tears over another guy.

“He has all this African art,” Kurt said. “Sculptures, and baskets, and these beautiful scarves. He said he just liked it. Said he’d never been south of Spain. I was so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“I was. I am. I was lonely, and he was there, and he was kind, and I was stupid.”

_I wouldn’t know anything about that_ , Blaine thought ruefully.

“Would it help for you to talk about it?” he asked. “What happened today, I mean.”  

Kurt shrugged, and looked down at his hands. “I’d finished my classes for the day, and I didn’t have to work, so I was heading home. I was going to make myself a late lunch and then head over to Adam’s. I… I was staying there tonight.” He flushed red. “I don’t do that all the time. You deserve to know. Santana asked for a favor, and I like this girl she’s seeing, so — ”

“You don’t have to explain,” Blaine said. He really wanted this part of the conversation to be over.

And maybe Kurt did too, because he looked relieved as he continued. “Well. I had just gotten off the subway when this Hispanic man came up to me. Bushwick is mostly a Mexican neighborhood, so that’s not unusual. He was asking me for directions, and when I leaned over to show him where he was going on his map, someone else came up behind me and put this smelly rag over my face. The next thing I knew I was in that warehouse, tied to a chair.” He shook his head. “They kept asking me questions, like ‘Who do you work for’? I thought maybe there was a plot against Anna Wintour. But then they told me they knew that I was CIA, or DEA, or something like that, and when I told them I wasn’t, they got even angrier. They kept asking about Tennison, Tennison, and I told them I didn’t know anyone named Tennison. When they finally believed me, that’s when they gagged me.”

“I’m sorry.” Blaine didn’t know what else to say. 

Kurt shook his head. “It still feels like it’s some crazy bad dream. Like I’m going to wake up in my bed at home and none of this will have happened. I mean, you, and your brother, and your parents? They’re spies? Adam’s a spy? Why would England even put a spy at NYADA? Was someone butchering Shakespeare? It doesn’t make any sense.” He took a long sip of his tea. “He called me right away, you know. When I was still in the car. He asked me if I was okay, and then he went right into how I was going to have to be debriefed for his incident report. I hung up.”  He put down his mug. “I didn’t even know his real name. I feel like something out of a bad country song.”

It tore at Blaine to see Kurt looking so dejected, even over this. “No,” he said, taking Kurt’s hand. “No, don’t think like that. I mean, it’s not like he was some random guy. He’s in Her Majesty’s Secret Service. He’s James Bond! Who wouldn’t fall for James Bond? Men, women, housepets, that terrible wig Javier Bardem wore in _Skyfall_...”

Kurt’s expression turned fond and familiar. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked. 

Blaine choked back all the promises he wanted to make, let them turn to ashes in his throat. “You know why.”

Kurt squeezed his hand once before letting it go. “Don’t tell my dad, okay? Gay he could handle, but Bond girl might be a bridge too far.”

Their dinner came, and as they ate conversation turned to easier topics — news from home, NYADA gossip, Andy Cohen’s latest haircut. Eventually they ended up where they always ended up: singing, and music, and performing. Kurt had been doing some new exercises for his chest voice, and Blaine had been working on his vocal stamina, so they compared notes and shared advice until it felt natural again to be talking like this, just the two of them together and the music between them. Eventually, after even dessert was long finished, Kurt yawned and stretched his arms above his head. “It’s been kind of a long day. If you don’t mind, I think I’m ready to turn in. Where are the sheets? I’ll get the couch set up.”

Blaine stood. “Why don’t you take the bed? Like you said, you had a long day. You should be comfortable.”

“Oh, no, thanks. I don’t want to put you out.”

 “You wouldn’t be. It’s fine. I’ll take the sofa bed.”

“But where’s Cooper going to sleep?”

“I don’t think Cooper’s coming home tonight,” Blaine said. 

Kurt’s eyebrow went up. “Well,” he said. “If you really don’t mind. Thank you.”

“Of course. Let me get you some towels.”

Blaine had already started tidying up for the night when he heard the shower start. He cleared off the coffee table and carefully wound the power cords for all of Cooper's laptops, determinedly not visualizing Kurt in the shower. He neatened the top of the storage cabinets and pushed the chairs back in at the dinner table, not letting himself imagine Kurt just a few feet away, naked and wet. He washed and dried the teacups, and didn’t think about Kurt under the shower, soaping himself up, water running down his body, the soap suds sliding down his long, slim legs. He let himself breathe again when the shower turned off.

He was pulling the throw pillows and cushions off the couch when Kurt reappeared. He was flushed pink from the shower, and wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a thin blue t-shirt. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” said Blaine. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” But he just stood there, arms folded protectively across his chest, watching Blaine work.

“Seriously, Kurt. Is there a cockroach in the bathroom or something?”

“No.” Kurt frowned. “Is there?”

“It was just an example. What’s going on?”

“I wanted to ask... Well, it’s a little unusual.”

Everything in Blaine’s life was unusual right now. He waited. 

“I was thinking,” Kurt said, “if it was okay with you, I wouldn’t mind it if we shared the bed.”

Blaine dropped the cushion he was holding back onto the couch. 

“Not for sex,” Kurt clarified hurriedly. “Not – not that. But I was thinking. I hate to put you out. And it’s a king-sized bed. So there’s plenty of room. And, I guess, it’s been a hard day, Blaine. I could use the company of my best friend.”

Blaine had spent most of the school year referring to Sam and Tina as his best friends. What he had with Kurt was different, and stronger, and deeper in his bones. Best friends was only a part of what they had been to each other, what they still were. Though if Kurt didn’t want to acknowledge that right now, Blaine wasn’t going to pass up the chance to sleep next to him, not to make some dumb point. Not for anything. “Sure,” he said, doing his best to seem indifferent. “If that would help. That would be nice.” 

He put all the cushions back on the couch and went into the bathroom to change. The shower was still steamy and smelled of soap. Kurt’s dopp kit, with his familiar moisturizer and toner and hair spray, sat open on the corner of the sink, and he was tempted to go through and open each one up, just to inhale their scents. _Be cool, Anderson_ , he told himself as he brushed his teeth. He wasn’t going to be weird or uncomfortable about being close to Kurt, not after the terrible day Kurt had had. The terrible day Blaine was part of the reason for. He was going to be there to take care of Kurt. That was what he wanted, and now Kurt wanted it too. He could leave it at that.

When Blaine came out of the bathroom, Kurt’s eyes went wide. “What are you wearing?”

Blaine looked down. He was wearing the sleepwear Cooper had bought for him: a chocolate-brown baggy t-shirt and neon blue Hawaiian-print pajama pants. He wasn’t sure if he was more horrified by the outfit or the fact that he’d already become desensitized to it. “Never let a straight guy go clothes shopping for you,” he sighed.

“You poor thing,” Kurt said with a smirk.

"You'd think, with everything else, that it wouldn't bother me. I mean, look at everything you went through today. Sam got a concussion, my parents are in hiding — and I’m upset about my clothes?” He ran a hand over his bristly face and sighed. “I get why I need to look different. I do. But I don’t like not seeing myself in the mirror, you know?”

“I understand,” Kurt said. “If it helps... you don’t look as bad as you think you do.” 

“No?”

Kurt shrugged a little, almost shyly. “I mean, you don’t look like you. I get why that’s weird. And those pajamas are tragic. But you don’t look bad.”

“Thanks.” Blaine pulled back the covers and slid into bed. “You haven’t seen the baggy jeans yet.”

Kurt turned off the lamp on his bedside table, leaving the apartment dark. “Those are coming back, you know.”

“Really? You have to put a stop to that.” 

“I’ll do what I can,” Kurt promised. He turned away, curling towards sleep.

Sharing a bed with Kurt now wasn't the agony of that last night in Kurt’s bed in Brooklyn, the two of them broken up in every way except for saying the words out loud. It wasn't the sweetness of loving and being loved either. But it felt familiar, and safe. Even with the low buzz of want in his veins, he felt comforted by Kurt lying there beside him.

It made him brave. “I don’t know,” he said into the dark. “Maybe I do look like myself now.” 

“What?” Kurt rolled back over to face him.

“Everything I thought I knew about myself, it’s not true. I’m not who I thought I was. So maybe this is what I really look like. I'm a second-generation spy and a hunted fugitive. Why would I look the same as when I was a show-choir boy from Ohio?”

“You are a – you're a show-choir _star_ from Ohio.” Kurt’s eyes were wide in the dark. “Nothing that’s happened takes that away from you. You’re still Blaine. You’re thoughtful, and you help people, and you worry too much, and you love to sing. All of this, it’s just going to make you stronger, and smarter, and teach you how to block cellphone signals using basic household items. It’s not going to take away who you are. And while I will deny ever having said this if anyone asks me, it doesn't matter what you're wearing. You're still the same person I met at Dalton, whether you're in baggy jeans or a bowtie.”

Gratitude and love and aching distance crashed together inside him, and Blaine could feel the tears start forming. He swallowed them back. “I don’t really wear bowties much anymore," he managed. 

He was wincing at his own stupidity even before he was done speaking, but thankfully Kurt sounded amused. “Proving my point completely.” He dropped his hand softly on the mattress, bridging the space between them, and Blaine reached over to meet it. It always steadied him to hold Kurt’s hand.“You're still you, Blaine. Bowties or not. I would still know you anywhere.”

Blaine ran his thumb across Kurt's knuckles, a silent thank you. 

“But... really? No more bowties?”

“Once in a while. For the student council debate, Sam told me it would make me more approachable. Then it kind of stuck.”

“You let Sam style you for the debate? You didn’t ask me?”

Kurt’s tone was amused, even flirtatious, but his words were like a punch. “I did ask you.”

“Oh.” There was a long pause before Kurt added, “I don't remember. I'm sorry.”

Kurt's hold on his hand went slack, and Blaine gripped him tighter. “It's okay. You were busy.” 

They lay there silently for a few breaths, breathing together, and Blaine thought back on the months they’d been apart. He’d messed up badly with Kurt, but that didn’t have to be the end of their story, did it? Maybe that stuff his dad was always saying about adversity making you a better person was right. His dad had probably faced a lot more adversity than Blaine knew about, after all.  

“Maybe I needed to evolve. Stylistically, I mean.” he said.

“That makes sense,” Kurt said quietly. “I’m dressing differently too these days. More suits. Fewer avant-garde sweaters. And it only takes one overpacked rush-hour subway car to convince you that big sculptural brooches don't really work in New York.”

“I can see that.” Blaine nodded into the dark. “But I’d still know you anywhere too.”

“Well, good. I’d hate to think I spend all this effort on honing my unique personal style to no effect.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Blaine said. It was on the edge of saying too much, but he managed to get it out light and amused-sounding. Kurt hummed happily, and curled into himself again for sleep. This time he didn’t turn away, and he didn’t pull back his hand at all.

Blaine lay in bed staring through the dark at the ceiling, the day’s knots slowly undoing themselves inside him. Kurt’s breathing turned steady and slow, and pulled him towards sleep in turn. He tangled his fingers with Kurt’s, so they wouldn’t be separated in the night, and closed his eyes.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Blaine woke up in the dark with a jolt, his heart pounding. ****

The apartment was silent: no knocking in the water pipes, no sirens from the street. But something had startled him. He breathed deep.

Kurt was still fast asleep beside him, but Kurt had always slept more deeply than he had. They’d both drifted closer to the middle of the bed, towards each other’s warmth, but they weren’t touching beyond their interlaced hands. On the few occasions when they’d been able to share a bed back in Ohio, they woke up hot and sweaty and pressed up close against each other. Blaine tried hard not to think about that now. Going as slowly as he could manage, so as not to wake Kurt, he pulled his hand away and got out of bed.

Just like he’d expected, Cooper hadn’t come home; the main part of the apartment was quiet and still. Blaine checked everything he could think of, and looked down onto the street below to see if there’d been an accident or a fire. Traffic went by just like it always had, and there were no signs of anything wrong in the apartment. Maybe it had just been a bad dream after all.

He went into the bathroom to pee, carefully closing the door so the light wouldn’t wake Kurt. Blinking in the brightness, he noticed his mother’s makeup mirror had its own little light on it. After he washed his hands, he turned the light on: it could function like a nightlight if he woke up again. 

Back in bed, he waited for the last of the adrenaline surge to disappear. He rolled onto his side and in the dim light from the bathroom, he let himself just watch Kurt sleep. In the days before Kurt went to New York, he’d done that a lot. While they were watching TV together, while Kurt was working, after sex, he’d done what he could to memorize the way Kurt looked in every kind of light. The feel of Kurt’s skin under his hand, the weight of his head on Blaine’s chest, the planes of his body and his face. At the time, Blaine thought he was storing them up until his first visit. It was only after their breakup that he realized that he’d been preparing himself the whole time for a much longer drought. 

The whole thing started to feel a little stalkery after a few minutes, so he settled back down against his pillow and reached for Kurt’s hand again. Which was of course when Kurt woke up.

“Hmmm?”

Blaine propped himself up on his forearm. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

“Blaine?”

“Something woke me up. I’m sorry.”

Kurt lifted his head. “What? What’s happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I just got spooked.” Blaine put what he hoped was a comforting hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Everything’s fine, though. I checked and double-checked. It’s all okay.”

“Okay. That’s good.” Kurt fell back against the pillow. His voice was already starting to blur with sleep.

“Sweet dreams,” Blaine said. And he should leave it there, he knew that, but he just couldn’t. Not with Kurt right there, so close and so real, so relaxed and warm. So he leaned over and gently put the chastest kiss he could manage against Kurt’s forehead, right at the hairline. 

“Blaine.” Kurt put a hand against Blaine’s jaw, holding him in place before he could pull away. When their eyes met, Kurt smiled, sleep-fogged and content. “My Blaine.” He tilted his head up and gently kissed Blaine’s mouth.

Blaine stayed frozen where he was, not sure what to do. If Kurt was half-asleep, or mostly asleep, was it taking advantage to kiss him back? Was there even such a thing as sleep-kissing? Kurt made a pleased little humming noise and lifted his head to kiss Blaine again. This one had a little more intent to it, and Kurt sucked on Blaine’s lower lip as he fell back to the bed. The look on his face was happy and inviting and entirely awake. Blaine let out the breath he’d been holding, and leaned down to kiss him back.

Kurt rolled them over to their sides, one knee between Blaine’s legs, and they stayed there, kissing slow and wet. It was a little awkward: not as good as being on top of Kurt or, even better, having Kurt’s weight on top of him, but it meant they could keep kissing without it turning into something else too quickly. The last time they’d been together, at Valentine’s Day, it had been all about the rush. He’d been so eager to get Kurt into bed, to feel Kurt fucking into him, that he'd been willing to skip past anything even vaguely resembling foreplay. Now he let himself focus on the moment at hand. Kurt’s mouth, warm and sleep-stale. His lips, soft and lush and just a little demanding. His tongue, curling into Blaine’s mouth, tangling with Blaine’s. He wanted to experience it all.

Kurt pulled back a little, breathing hard, and Blaine kissed him on the pulse point below his jaw. Kurt tilted his head back, giving Blaine more access, and Blaine happily moved in closer, kissing his way down into the hollow of Kurt’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweet earth and musk and boy that was so perfect and familiar. Kurt put his long fingers in Blaine’s hair and pulled him back up again.

“Ouch,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Not a fan of the bristles.”

“I could go shave right now,” Blaine said teasingly.

“Don’t you dare,” Kurt said, and pulled him in for another kiss.

The kiss got even deeper, and they were closer to each other on the bed. Blaine’s hand was on Kurt’s waist, and Kurt’s was on Blaine’s bicep, tracing slow curves against his skin like secrets. Their feet were tangled up together but they still hadn’t moved too close, despite the fact that Blaine was getting hard and maybe — probably — Kurt was too. It was almost like being sixteen again, when kissing was as far as they’d gotten, only the want for what could come next was clearer, and sharper. He could stop here if he had to, though. If that was what Kurt wanted. He really hoped it wasn’t. 

Kurt’s hand drifted down from his arm, tracing a line down his side, and he squirmed with pleasure and a little bit of ticklishness. Kurt laughed softly and dipped his hand under Blaine’s shirt, warm confident fingers splayed against his bare skin. The need Blaine had been keeping banked surged through him like a shock. He was hot, and dizzy, and his heart was pounding. “Please,” he managed. “Yes.”

Kurt’s hand trailed heat and sensation up his back, pulling his baggy t-shirt up around his shoulderblades. He pulled back enough to take it off entirely and throw it off the side of the bed. Kurt took a sharp breath in, and leaned over to lick his way up Blaine's chest, stopping to bite at a nipple. The pleasure of it hit Blaine with a jolt, and the sound he made was loud in the quiet apartment. 

"You," Blaine said, pulling at Kurt's t-shirt. "You too." Words were falling away from him, but Kurt knew what he meant, and he pulled off his shirt in one fluid gesture. His pale skin shone in the dim light, and Blaine's mouth watered at the sight of him.  

Moving slowly had been good. Kissing down the center of Kurt's body, nuzzling against the fine scattering of hair on his chest and feeling his breath hitch as Blaine went lower – well, that was even better. Kurt was hard against his thin pajama bottoms and Blaine mouthed at his cock, liking the tease and the roughness of the pajama fabric against his tongue. Just that little bit of friction was enough to make Kurt make an urgent, strangled sound, like he was holding back. Blaine looked up at him, making sure everything was okay, and Kurt put his hand on Blaine’s shoulder, gripping at him, urging him back for a kiss.

“Stay here with me,” he said. “Just like this.”

Blaine’s heart was pounding out of his chest, and he would have done anything Kurt wanted just then, anything at all. “Okay.” 

Kurt’s hands snaked under the waist of Blaine’s pajama bottoms: a tease and a request. Blaine quickly shimmied them off, pulling off his underwear as he went. Kurt undressed himself as Blaine worked, and then they were naked together again. Together. He had to kiss a moan into Kurt’s mouth at the rightness of it all.

Kurt rolled him over and kissed him hard, and Blaine was lost to it. Kurt was strong and beautiful above him, and their cocks were sliding against each other, slowly and then faster and then slow again. Kurt’s forehead rested against his, and they breathed each other in, the air humid and heavy around them. Blaine could feel the arousal pooling low in his belly, the pleasure sparking and aching with each stroke. He tried to hold on, to keep control, to stay in this moment as long as he could, but then Kurt wrapped his hand around both of them, stroking them together, and it was too much, too good. His back arched off the bed as he came. 

Kurt was still moving against him, faster and more deliberate now. He put his hands on Kurt’s ass, felt the muscles moving there, and encouraged him along. Kurt’s hips snapped harder, and he buried his face in Blaine’s neck. “Like that, yeah,” Blaine said. “Come for me,” and Kurt did, hot against Blaine’s body. Blaine let his mouth rest against the top of Kurt’s head as he shuddered through it, and breathed silent _I love you_ sinto Kurt’s hair. Sex always made Blaine emotional.

Kurt fell back onto his side, and made a little humming sound. He sounded as drowsy and satisfied as Blaine felt, and Blaine loved him so much. Sure, maybe they weren’t a couple again. Maybe Kurt would wake up in the morning distant and defended again, the way he had been in their hotel room on Valentine’s Day. But that was for the morning. Tonight, they were together, the way Blaine knew they were meant to be. They’d kissed, and they’d made love, and it was a haven. Kurt used to say, back when they were dating, that Blaine made him feel safe. He felt like he understood that now.

“I really didn’t mean to wake you up,” he murmured. 

Kurt laughed. “That’s okay.” 

He placed a kiss on Blaine’s forehead, the mirror of the one Blaine had given him, and Blaine drifted off to sleep again just like that, with Kurt’s head on the pillow next to his, and their legs still tangled together.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Blaine woke up to sunlight coming in the apartment windows and Kurt naked in bed next to him, saying his name. His heart stuttered in his chest, happy and already nostalgic for this moment before it slipped away.  ****

“It's nine o'clock,” Kurt said. “I figured you might want to be dressed before your brother gets back.”

“Mmm. Thanks.” Kurt's body was even more defined than it had been back in February, and paler somehow too, like a Greek sculpture if the Greeks had had freckles. Blaine wanted to trace them all with his tongue. “Sleep okay?”

“When I slept.” Kurt sounded knowing and amused. He turned as he stretched an arm overhead, and the light caught a fine dusting of reddish-brown hair across his jawline. Blaine was entranced. “We should probably talk.”

“Oh. All right.” The drowsiness and arousal both burned off quickly, and he rubbed at the sleep in his eyes. 

Kurt maneuvered himself up to a seated position, and he pulled the top sheet up to cover his lap. “I guess this is the point where I’m supposed to say last night didn’t matter. Right?” He didn’t sound convinced.

“Is that what you want to say?” 

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Kurt sighed. He looked tired. “I left my apartment yesterday thinking I would spend most of the weekend with Adam. Now Adam doesn’t even exist, not really, and I’m here.” He pulled at the sheet. “I always seem to end up here. In bed. With you.” 

Blaine risked a tentative smile. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing, Kurt.”

“Well, you wouldn’t.” Kurt gave him a sly little look before he went back to seeming tired again. “I don’t either, not really. I just – I don’t know what it means, Blaine. And I don’t know that I can figure it out right now. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s okay.” He’d been bracing himself for the same sort of brush-off he’d gotten last time, with Kurt putting up all of his defences; this was better. And, if he was going to be honest with himself, actually better than trying to have a big talk about their future right this very minute, in the middle of everything else. “I get it. It’s the right call. I mean, I have to think about my parents, too. They’re in trouble: they need Cooper and me. Got to beat all the bad guys before you get to be with Princess Peach, right?” Kurt gave him a confused look. “It's a video game reference. Super Mario?"

Kurt rolled his eyes as he threw back the covers. “Oh my God. That is it. I am giving up boys for Lent.”

“Lent ended like a month ago.” Kurt climbed over his legs to get to the bathroom more quickly, and Blaine couldn’t help grinning. “And you’re supposed to only give up things you really love.”

“Yet another reason to be glad I’m an atheist,” Kurt said. The bathroom tile made his voice sound echoey. “Ugh, I need a shower.”

Just then, the lock turned in the apartment door, and Cooper’s voice rang out. “Everybody decent in here?”

The bathroom door slammed shut, and Blaine pulled the covers up around his neck. “Yes. It’s fine. Come in.”

“Whoo!” Cooper came around the half-wall, theatrically waving his right hand in front of his face. In his left, he held a large brown paper bag. “Seriously, open a window, boys. It reeks of the nasty in here.”

“Good morning, Cooper.” Blaine gritted his teeth and tried to smile politely. 

His brother grinned at him. “Good for you, Blainey. I told you I was a killer wingman. And look, I brought bagels.” He held up the bag. “Lucky for you, Lucretia lives right near Russ & Daughters. You are in for a treat. Once you put some clothes on, that is.”

Cooper went back to the other side of the half-wall. Blaine wrapped himself in the top sheet and rummaged through his clothes for something to wear. Kurt came out of the bathroom fully dressed in skinny jeans and a grey henley, his hair still damp and the scarf around his neck not yet perfectly arranged. “I figured you’d want to get in there quickly,” he said. “Though you could go with that toga look; it’s got the element of surprise.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Blaine said. “Cooper’s got bagels.”

“Oooh. Well, maybe I can stay for breakfast. Santana needs time to take down the sling, after all.” 

When Blaine was done with the fastest shower and shave he could manage, he joined his brother and Kurt in the main area of the apartment. Cooper was setting up his computers on the coffee table again, and Kurt was in the small galley kitchen, cutting bagels. “Coffee's almost ready,” he said. “And you will not believe this breakfast. This is the same place Isabelle has us order from when there's an early meeting. And there's cake.”

“Cake for breakfast?”

“Not cake,” Cooper said from behind his bank of laptops. “It's babka. More like a chocolate bread.”

_It’s cake_ , Kurt mouthed at him. “And bagels and lox, of course, and two kinds of cream cheese, and oh Blaine, there's this amazing whitefish salad, you have to try it.”

“You like the whitefish?” Cooper said. “I should have bought more.”

“Can I help?” asked Blaine.

“Why don’t you set the table?” Kurt said, and so Blaine joined him in the kitchen, pulling plates and glasses down from cabinet shelves. The kitchen was so narrow that they couldn’t help brushing against each other as they worked, and Blaine wasn’t even trying. Kurt kept half an eye on him the whole time, knowing and amused, but never pulling away.

When they were seated and piling thin-sliced smoked salmon on their bagels, Cooper looked over at him and frowned. “You shaved,” he said like he was just noticing it. “I specifically said not to.”

“It was bothering me,” Blaine said.

“‘Bothering you’ is not –”

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Kurt said, interrupting. “I told him I didn’t like it.” Back in high school, saying something like that would have made Kurt turn bright red and maybe even leave the room. Now, even though his cheeks were pinking, he just shrugged, and didn’t turn away for a moment. 

Blaine still jumped in to defend him, though. “It’s not – it was bothering me. It _itched_.” 

“Sure, Blainey,” said his brother. “It _itched_. Okay, I guess I can work with this. A baseball cap, some big sunglasses, you’ll be fine.”

“Are you going somewhere undercover?” Kurt asked. 

“Well, not in the strictest sense of the word, no, but we certainly aren’t going to want to draw attention. I want to follow a lead out to Brighton Beach.” 

“You think it’s that same guy. The one that A- Paul told you about,” Kurt said. He managed to say the name almost neutrally. “You think he’s involved?”

Cooper took a bite from his bagel and held up a finger in the universal sign for ‘wait.’ When he’d washed the food down with some coffee, he said, “The Russian we learned about last night was named Lev Mikhailovich Sergeyev. Initials LMS, as in LMS Shipping, where we found all those passports. Now, we know Sergeyev has connections in Liberia, we know he’s used a shipping company as a front before, and we know LMS the shipping company needs high-powered couriers for important shipments. Like maybe millions of dollars in illegally sourced diamonds, whisked through Customs inside those cases Blaine found in Kosloff’s office.” Cooper reached across the table for a slice of the chocolate babka. “It’s not our kind of job; it’s not what we do. But nothing else makes sense.”

“What do you mean, it’s not our kind of job?” Blaine asked.

“I mean we’re spies. We work for governments, mostly: when they need extra hands, or our expertise, or when some bullshit regulation makes it easier for them to outsource a job. And we do corporate work. I don’t apologize for stealing from rich people to make other rich people even richer; it’s not Robin Hood, but it’s part of how business gets done. But we don’t work with arms dealers. And conflict diamonds?” Cooper shook his head. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, guys. Mom and Dad came of age during the Cold War, and they’re still true believers. Try never asking Dad about Ollie North, seriously. If they thought they were working with legitimate freedom fighters, they would absolutely do whatever needed to be done to help the cause. But that doesn’t seem to be what’s going on here. Nothing we’ve learned about this guy makes me disagree with Paul’s description of him as a hopped-up little shit. Apologies,” he said, nodding to Kurt.

“I don’t mind if you mention him,” Kurt said. He took another helping of the whitefish. “Is he going to be in trouble? Because of what happened?”

Cooper shrugged. “Not my department: I don’t work for MI-6, I just freelance. I’m sure there’ll be lots of reports he has to file, but I doubt they’ll pull him from his current mission, not if what he said was true. That’s a lot of time to invest in a op, whatever it is.”

So Paul would still be Adam Crawford, NYADA student. Blaine watched Kurt to see how he reacted to the news, but Kurt had always had the better poker face: he couldn’t tell.

The breakfast really was great. He’d always thought that Kurt was exaggerating about New York water being necessary to make a great bagel, but maybe he had a point. Blaine chewed and thought about what Cooper had said. “So you want to go to Brighton Beach. What did you have in mind?” 

“Shumba means lion, right?” said Cooper. “Well, the lion may sleep tonight, but if he does, someone in Brighton Beach knows where. On Monday we’re going after the guy who supposedly runs LMS Shipping, this Kosloff character, but until then, a little reconnoitering in deepest Brooklyn seems like it might be a good idea. You found those matchbooks for Natalya’s Restaurant in Kosloff’s office, so that’s maybe a lead. I’ll scare up some pictures of Sergeyev and his crew, and we’ll go down there and see who we can see.”

Kurt’s eyes had gone wide. “Is that safe?”

Cooper shrugged. “Of course it is. I mean, maybe a little danger, sure, but it’s just a recon mission; we’re not looking for trouble. But if they’re looking for Mom and Dad, and they already hit the house in Lima, we have to assume they know what Blaine looks like, and that I'm his brother, so we’ll keep our heads down.”

“But everyone knows what you look like, Cooper. You’re on TV! And Blaine...”

“It’ll be okay.” Blaine couldn’t help being warmed by the look of concern on Kurt’s face, but he really didn’t want him to worry.

“Kurt has a point; like I said, there’s a reason why I’m not a field operative. But with a little bit of effort on the disguise, we should be fine for the few hours it’ll take.”

“You couldn’t break in after hours, like with the shipping company?”

“Oh, Blaine told you about that too, huh?” Cooper shot his brother a look that was only partly annoyed before turning his attention back to Kurt. “He was a tremendous hero during that operation. Very masculine, if you like that sort of thing.” Blaine kicked him under the table, hard. Cooper’s expression didn’t flicker in the slightest. “But think about it. If it’s just where Sergeyev’s crew hangs out, we’re not going to learn very much from breaking in when no one’s there, right? I know how to be careful, Kurt, and since it helps to have two pairs of eyes on an intel mission, I’ll make sure Blaine’s careful too. You can stay here and monitor comms if you want.”

Just then, one of Cooper’s computers started making noise: three long loud beeps, and then a tinny jazz recording. Cooper shot out of his chair. “Holy shit.” He ran to the couch and started typing furiously on the computer in the middle of the table.  

“Cooper! Cooper, can you hear us?” His mother’s voice coming out of the laptop, and _holy shit_ was right. Blaine and Kurt looked at each other in amazement.

“I can hear you, Mom. It’s so good to see you.”

“Cooper Anderson! What on earth are you doing in New York? With Blaine, no less – is he there?”

Cooper’s brow furrowed, and Blaine hurried over to the couch. In a video-call window, he saw both of his parents, together in what looked like a standard hotel room. “I’m right here, Mom. I’m okay.”

 “Oh, thank goodness,” his mother said. The connection wasn’t great, so the video kept buffering: it took a while before he could see the relief in her eyes. It was weird that she still looked the same: shouldn’t she look different, somehow, now that he knew who she really was? “I know this has been a difficult time, sweetheart, but it’s all going to be okay now. Cooper’s going to take you somewhere safe.”

“But... what about you? You’re in danger. It’s Sergeyev who’s after you, isn’t it? We’ve been trying to figure it out.”

His parents’ images stuttered and buffered again.

“Cooper?” said his father. Blaine knew that _this-better-be-good_ tone all too well.

“I read him in,” Cooper said. Over their parents' protests, he continued. “He's not stupid; there was no way he was coming with me without a reasonable explanation. And Blaine’s practically an adult now. He deserves to know the truth.”

“That was not a decision for you to make on your own,” Mom said.

“Yeah, well, next time you’ve gone to ground and I'm rescuing Blaine from a squad of armed attackers, I’ll make sure to loop you into my decision-making process.” Cooper ran a hand through his hair. “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. But you have to know we've been worried sick about you two.”

“When your emotions are in play is when it’s most important to stick to the mission protocol,” said Dad.

“And when the mission goes south is when it’s most important to improvise,” Cooper shot back.

Blaine shot a look over to Kurt, who was still at the dining table, not even pretending not to listen in. “Cooper’s right,” he said. “There’s no way I would’ve just followed him blindly. And I’m eighteen; I think I’m old enough that I can be trusted with the truth.”

Cooper gave him a quick, grateful smile before returning his attention to the screen. Their parents were both frowning in their hotel room. “We’ll talk about that after this is all over,” said Mom. “Right now, I need you to do exactly what we’re going to tell you to do, okay?”

“You’re going to send us away,” Blaine said.

“Of course we are. We want you to be safe.”

“But we can help.” The idea of being shut away somewhere for his own safety while his parents’ lives were in danger was as intolerable as it had been when Cooper first suggested it. Worse, really, because now he had done stuff to help, and he knew he could do more. 

Mom’s eyebrows went up. “You can help by leaving New York immediately.”

“But Sergeyev – he’s after you.”

“No, Blaine,” said his father. “He’s after you.”

At the table, Kurt dropped his spoon: it rattled loudly in the quiet apartment. When Blaine looked over, Kurt was all astonishment, and there was whitefish salad on his scarf.

“Is someone else there?” Dad frowned.

“Um,” said Blaine. “Just Kurt.”

“Kurt’s there?” said Mom. “In the apartment? Why?” 

Blaine looked over at Kurt for help, and he came over to the couch to join them. He sat down next to Blaine and waved awkwardly at the laptop camera.

“Hi, Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson.”

“Hello, dear. How have you been?” Mom said. She had always liked Kurt.

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks.” Kurt looked a little shaken, but he sounded perfectly poised, like this was just another afternoon back in Ohio. “Good to see you both.”

“You read him in too?” Dad said pointedly.

“Actually,” Cooper said, “Kurt got caught up in this little drama all on his own. I’ll explain later. Right now, you need to tell me more about Sergeyev. He’s after Blaine?” His father nodded. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Dad. “But here we are. Shumba found out we were working to take him down from the inside. He had his chance to kill us, but he used it to quiz us about our son. We thought he meant you.”

“But then he started talking about Lima, and how youth would be no protection, and we knew he was after Blaine,” Mom added. “So we got out, and we’ve been hiding from his goons ever since. We thought we’d be able to go after him again once Blaine was safe.” Even through a computer screen, her disapproving look packed a punch.

“We can do recriminations at the after-action,” said Cooper. “Any ideas?”

Mom shook her head. “We have a drop point in Lima that might’ve been compromised, but that’s the only thing so far. Blaine, has anything out of the ordinary happened to you recently? New people, or new situations?”

Blaine shrugged. “Not before they attacked the house, no.” Everyone was so matter-of-fact about it, being these versions of themselves he’d never seen before, with their jargon and their strategies. It was weird. He leaned against Kurt a little, just enough to feel the familiar shape of his shoulder beneath his shirt. 

“There’s time to figure it out later,” said Dad. “Cooper, go back to the original plan. Take your brother to Safe House Alpha.”

“But call the Lima PD first,” said Mom.

“What?” Cooper said.

“I understand that you’re not used to extracting targets who might be missed, Cooper. But this time the police are on the case. They’ve already reached out to us through Anderson & Associates.”

“What have you told them?”

“Nothing. As far as they’re concerned, we have no idea where Blaine is, and we’re appropriately concerned about it. Contact the Lima police, Blaine can make a statement, and then you tell them you’re taking him to your aunt in Chicago until we get back.”

“You have an aunt in Chicago?” Kurt whispered. Blaine shook his head no.

Cooper sighed. “Okay. Lima PD, then Alpha.”

“And call Gary,” said his father. “We’ll need that wall fixed.”

“Fine.” Cooper rolled his eyes. “Anything else?”

“Well, the garage will need –” Dad said, and then there was a noise from behind them like a car backfiring.

Mom turned away from the camera, towards the hotel room door, and in one smooth movement, raised a gun. “Bradley, we need an exit,” she said, and she started firing. The sound was so loud the video feed’s audio fuzzed out. The gunfire  – that was what the noise had been, it was gunfire, someone _shooting at Mom and Dad_ – in the hallway outside their room continued.  

“On it. Love you, boys,” said their father brusquely. He closed his laptop lid, ending the call.

Kurt clutched Blaine’s arm. Blaine felt ill.

Cooper jumped up from the couch and started pacing furiously. His hands clenched and loosened as he walked, like he was grasping for something just out of reach. “Goddammit,” he said. “Goddammit.” 

“Cooper, we need to help them.”

“What do you want me to do? I don’t know where they are, it’s an encrypted feed. And of course they don’t tell _me_   –” Cooper took a long breath, steadying himself. “Look. Mom’s a great shot. Better than me, even without her glasses. She and Dad have things under control on their end, I have to believe that.”

“But we need to –”

“We need to follow orders.” Cooper shook his head. “I’m not crazy about it either, but it’s all we can do.”

“Cooper’s right,” Kurt said. “You need to get somewhere safe. And I should let you go.” He squeezed Blaine’s arm, and stood up. “I’ll get my bag.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Cooper pointed at the couch, and Kurt sat back down. “You’re not going anywhere, not by yourself. You got kidnapped yesterday. I’m taking it as a point of professional pride to get you home safely.”

“But —”

“I was planning to take you home and check the place out before we headed over to Natalya’s. But now I have to get us a clean car, which is going to take some time, and I can’t bring a stranger to the garage. So you’re going to stay here. Help Blaine clean this place up and get us ready to leave. Try to both be dressed when I get back.”

He clicked his tongue and winked at them, and then he was gone. Blaine was still sputtering with embarrassment as the door locked. 

“Well,” said Kurt, and they looked at each other for a long while in the silence. “We’d better get to work.”


	11. Chapter 11

Cleaning up went fast with two people. Kurt cleared away the last of breakfast and tidied the kitchen. Blaine wiped down the bathroom and stripped the bed. The clean pillowcases in the closet were monogrammed with his parents’ initials: BRA  and SCA. He was really glad those weren’t on the bed when he got there.

Then they were done, and there was nothing to do but sit on the couch and watch the clock. Blaine could feel Kurt getting antsier and antsier as the minutes passed. He tried making small talk, but they’d kind of covered all of that the night before. Besides which, his mind was too full of what he’d seen on the video feed: his parents, under attack, firing guns through the door of a hotel room somewhere. There really wasn’t anything else he could talk about, and he didn’t want to discuss it.

Finally, Kurt got up and fished his phone out of the cocktail shaker. “I’m sorry, Blaine. I can’t be out of contact this long.”

Blaine shrugged. After all, he was officially a missing person himself now; he knew how disorienting it felt. “Sure. I guess. I mean, we’re leaving soon, so even if someone did track you, it doesn’t matter, right?”

Kurt frowned at his phone as it powered up. “I should have known. Five texts and two voicemails from Rachel. Hold on, I’m going to call her.”

Blaine nodded, and sat back on the little couch to wait. Kurt leaned against the wall of cabinets, his whole body a long delicious line. Blaine looked away and tried to think about the car trip ahead of him with his brother.

“No, Rachel, I’m fine. What? He did? Well, he shouldn't have involved you, I'm sorry.... No, we had a fight. A — that's not important. No... I was going to go home and deal with the consequences with Santana later, but you'll never believe who I ran into. Cooper and Blaine! ...yes, both of them. Cooper's here for work, and Blaine's looking at colleges.” Kurt made an apologetic sort of grimace at him and continued. “So I crashed with them.… Yes, both of them, Rachel. I slept on the couch.” He sounded primly shocked that she could have even considered another possibility. He really had become a better actor at NYADA.

“I would have told you all this later. Adam shouldn’t have bothered you just because I turned my phone off. I'm sorry you were worried, but I'm fine. Really. …No. No, all of that’s fine too. It’s — look, we’ll talk when we see each other, okay? You’re still at Doug and Sarah’s? Good. Stay there.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Rachel.” Kurt pushed off from the cabinets and started to walk around the small living room area, the phone pressed tightly to his ear. “I just — I want to ride home with you. You know, like we used to. I know Blaine would love to see you too. Wouldn’t you, Blaine.”

“Absolutely,” Blaine said loudly.

“So just stay there for now, and we’ll come to you in a little while, okay? I’ll call you then. All right. I will. Goodbye.” He ended the call and looked over at Blaine. “Cooper’s going to have to make a stop to pick her up too, okay? And she sends her love.”

Blaine was touched. “That’s so nice. But… why are we picking up Rachel?”

“I’m not letting her go back to the loft by herself. Who knows who’s still lurking there? I should call Santana too, although knowing her they’re going to stay in and eat their way through all the food I have in the freezer. She’ll be fine, but Rachel?” He shook his head. “She’s with friends; she can stay there until Cooper gets back.”

That made sense. It was sweet, really, the way Kurt and Rachel looked out for each other. They were a family too. “Okay.”

Kurt’s expression went grim. “Now if you’ll excuse me…” He called another number, and Blaine could see him getting tense and angry, furling himself up as he waited.

“You leave my friends out of this,” he snapped at the phone, and he stalked off to the bedroom area.

So it was Paul he was talking to. The apartment was so small, Blaine couldn’t not hear some of the conversation.

“You — don’t you act all concerned now. Where was all this concern when you were lying to me, for months? And now you’re lying to Rachel? Getting her to — what, go look for me?”

Blaine figured he should probably do something else, something to take his mind off Kurt’s conversation. It wasn’t right for him to be listening in, even if he couldn’t help it. He pulled one of Cooper’s laptops off the coffee table to try to do some research. Maybe he could help his parents somehow, get them information they could use.

“It was a lie, Adam. Everything you ever told me was a lie. And you’re still trying to fix this? What is there even to fix?”

Blaine pulled up everything he could find on Natalya’s restaurant. It was a hotspot of Russian nightlife in Brighton Beach, a local landmark. The _New York Times_ recommended it as a place to get an authentic Russian dining experience, and so did reviewers on Yelp.

“That’s none of your goddamned business.”

Going deeper into the local newspaper archives told Blaine that Natalya’s had been the site of at least one major brawl and, three years ago, a stabbing. ‘Manager Michael Kosloff declined to comment,’ the _Daily News_ reported. Michael Kosloff, now the CEO of LMS Shipping. The first concrete sign that Natalya’s was part of the puzzle.

“No, it is not. You have no right —”

Kurt’s voice was getting thick with emotion. Blaine wanted to go and hold his hand, but he knew he couldn’t. Not for this conversation.

There were pictures of Michael Kosloff on the Internet: tall, weary-looking, all jowls and baggy eyes. Blaine saved a few to the computer’s desktop as Kurt kept talking.

“No. You have no right to ask me that. You’re not — ”

A text from Cooper: _Taking longer than expected. Don’t wait for me for lunch._

“You’re not my boyfriend. You never really were.”

Blaine held his breath.

“No! It doesn’t work like that. You can’t lie to me about everything but that one thing. It’s not like I’m ever going to believe you again.”

Blaine swallowed hard and went back to his search. He tried searching for more on Shumba this time. He found a few pictures of a short bald man with a flattened nose: ugly inside and out, Paul had said, and it was true. There was a Wikipedia page for him; just a stub with some basic information on his connections to the Russian mob, and links out to some related articles. Blaine clicked on a link that looked interesting, and then another, and then he was deep into the Wikipedia pages on conflict diamonds and African gun-running rings.

“It’s over, Adam. Paul. It’s over. Please don’t.”

He couldn’t help it that his heart leapt, hearing that. But Blaine tried to focus back on the research anyway.

“And those guys who attacked me. Will they be —?”

There was a long silence from the bedroom area, with Kurt not saying anything more than “mmm-hmmm” and “okay.” Blaine tried to keep reading, but it wasn’t long before he was just too sick to go on. It was all so awful. Local militias forcing kids, soldiers, entire villages to work in hot, dark, dangerous diamond mines. An entire industry built on pain and horror, propping up sociopaths’ blood-soaked fantasies of power. He was glad his parents could do something, anything to make it harder for those monsters to profit from their crimes.

“Okay. I guess I’ll see you at school.”

Kurt came back into the living room area looking fierce and determined and really not at all like he wanted to talk about it.

“Are you okay?”

Kurt nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. What are you doing?”

Blaine tilted the laptop screen towards him. “Research. Figured I could make myself useful.”

“That’s a good idea. Can I help?”

“Sure.” Blaine slid over on the small couch to make more room for Kurt. “By the way, Cooper texted — he’s running late. Said not to wait on him for lunch.”

“A late lunch will be fine for me. I kind of overdid it on the babka.” Kurt made a face. “Where should I start?”

They decided that Kurt would look for more information about Natalya’s, and Blaine would keep researching Shumba. If they were lucky, they’d meet in the middle.

“You know,” Kurt said after a quiet half-hour, “we could just go there.”

“What?”

“We could go to the restaurant. That was Cooper’s plan, right? He said it would be safe. And we could see if any of these people who we’re finding pictures of are actually there.”

Blaine’s hesitation must have shown on his face, because Kurt launched himself up from the couch and started speaking more emphatically, waving his arms to emphasize his points.

“We’re just sitting here waiting for something to happen to us, Blaine. We’re sitting ducks. Puppets of fate. Pawns in a game we weren’t even asked if we wanted to play. We should take some control of the situation while we can. You heard what your parents said: your life might be in the balance. Don’t you want to do something about it?”

When he put it that way, it was hard to argue with. Not that Blaine wanted to argue with Kurt when he looked so passionate anyhow. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”

Blaine put the ladybug tracker back on before he left, just in case, and they left a note for Cooper on the table.

* * * * *

The subway ride out to Brighton Beach was a long one, and some of the determination Blaine had felt when they’d left the apartment was leaching away. He was suddenly very conscious of the situation: himself with only a couple of days’ worth of spy training; Kurt, whose safety mattered even more to him than his own, with even less; heading out to a known hangout of the Russian mob without much of a plan beyond generally checking it out. They’d loaded all of the photos they’d found of Shumba and his associates onto Blaine’s phone, and they’d done what they could to make themselves inconspicuous-looking. Blaine was wearing his Wal-Mart denim jacket and a baseball cap he bought from a street vendor; Kurt had taken Cooper’s sunglasses and the leather jacket he’d found them in. It wasn’t much of a disguise as disguises went, but it was as much as Cooper had said he would do if they’d gone with him, so hopefully it would be enough.  

The train came out of the tunnels as they went deeper into Brooklyn. Kurt looked out the window at the fences and the long blocks of row houses as they flashed by. He looked sad and thoughtful, and Blaine wondered what he was thinking. They hadn’t really talked about what happened last night, but they’d left it at what seemed like a good place. Kurt had said he didn’t regret it. So maybe he was sad about his call with Paul. Blaine really didn’t want to talk about that. But he also really wanted Kurt to be as content as he’d been over breakfast.

“Are you okay?”

Kurt turned to face him, and his eyes were gray like the city sky. “Is this what relationships are like, Blaine?” His voice was quiet and steady in the way that it always was when he said hard things. “Do you think it’s what it’s always like? People lying to each other to cover up the ugly truth?”

The question hurt. Kurt’s eyes on him, angry and wary and sad, hurt more. Blaine didn’t know what to say. Eventually, Kurt turned back to the window.

The train stopped at a station, spewing out passengers, and then lurched into motion again. Blaine took a breath, and tried to seem calm.

“I never lied to you, Kurt,” he said. “I messed up, badly, I know, but I didn’t lie. I won’t ever lie to you.”

“No,” Kurt said. He was still looking out the window. “You don’t lie. You smile and nod and say everything is fine. That’s not lying.”

Blaine didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t lying, was it, to put the best face on things? To present yourself to the world as the person you really wanted to be? Maybe it was to Kurt. He hadn’t thought of it like that before.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

* * * * *

They were around the corner from the restaurant when Blaine's nerves kicked back in. "Hold on," he said. “We don’t have a plan, and we need one.”

“We go in, we order some food, we look around, we leave,” said Kurt. “What more of a plan do we need?”

Blaine thought back to all the things Cooper had talked about on their long drive to New York. “Well, we don’t want to seem like we’re there to find bad guys, right? We need a legend. A cover story.”

“You think someone’s going to ask us why we’re there?”

“They’re more likely to notice us if we look like we’re not just there to have brunch. So we have a legend. Maybe no one asks us, but it makes it easier for us to blend in. Like creating a backstory to motivate your character in an play.” Kurt nodded cautiously in agreement. “How about we’re a couple of NYU students taking an international relations class, we read about this place on Yelp, and we’re there to get a better sense of Russian culture? That’ll let us look around and maybe even ask some questions without it being weird.”

“Huh. That’s a good idea,” Kurt said. “I guess you’ve been learning a lot about spy stuff.”

Blaine gave his best fake nonchalant shrug. “A little bit,” he said, trying not to seem smug. “And we call it ‘tradecraft.’”

There was a line at the door at Natalya’s, but most of the groups were big parties: families, or groups of friends. The hostess found Blaine and Kurt a table for two almost immediately. It was in the front, near the bar, rather than in the main white-tablecloth dining room. Blaine was disappointed at first but then they got to their seats and saw a pack of muscled-up guys at one side of the bar, talking loudly in Russian among themselves and with the bartender. That seemed like a promising start, at least.

“Any of those guys look familiar?” Kurt murmured as they perused the menu.

Blaine shook his head. “I’m not sure. Maybe the blond one, with the buzzcut?”

“That’s what I thought too.” Kurt turned and smiled at the waitress who’d approached on precarious high heels, order pad already out. “What would be the most _authentic_ brunch we could have here, do you think?” he purred.

They managed to sell the waitress on their legend without, Blaine hoped, making themselves too annoying about it. When she was gone, Kurt leaned back in his seat and took a long drink of his water. “I think this Bond girl thing might have more going for it than I realized,” he said. “That was fun.”

In his mind’s eye, Blaine saw a flash of Kurt rising from the surf like Daniel Craig in _Casino Royale_. He shook his head to clear the image from his brain, and then pulled out his phone.

He held it up like he was taking a picture of the two of them at their table, but instead he started flipping through the pictures of Shumba and his crew that they’d found in their research. Kurt nodded and played along, pretending to pose as they swiped through the pictures. They found the buzzcut guy and one of the others too before their brunch came.

“What do you want to do next?” Kurt asked. He dug into his blintzes. “Oh, these are good.”

Blaine tried one: it was like a cheese-filled crepe, and sweet. “Well, we should take some pictures, if we can. So we have a record. For our class.” If they could take pictures of the guys they knew were part of Shumba’s gang with the other ones they didn’t recognize, it would be more people for his parents to look out for, the next time they got in touch. “And I’ll take some notes. You know, for our essay.”

“That’s smart,” said Kurt. “You’re being very thorough.”

“Well, I want to do this right.”

“You always do.” Kurt’s phone rang; he frowned at it and answered before Blaine could ask what he meant. “Rachel? What’s going on? ... You what?... You couldn’t not sing for a few more hours?” He sighed. “Okay, okay. Look, we’re at this restaurant in Brighton Beach; that’s not too far from Sarah’s place, right?... Okay, good. We’ll meet you here. Just — we’re doing research, okay? For a class. I’ll text you.”

Blaine gave him a version of his dad’s most skeptical face.

“It’s not my fault that Rachel’s gift for pissing people off is as exceptional as her vocal talent,” Kurt said. “I can take her home when she gets here; if there’s two of us traveling in a cab, we’ll be safe. It’ll be one less stop for you to make later. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”

“Of course. Don’t worry about it,” Blaine said. “Things are always going to get unpredictable in the field.” That was something else Cooper had stressed on that long road trip. You could never know how things were going to change once you were in the middle of an op, so it was best to leave yourself a lot of options. Like he was making options for his parents by gathering intel at Natalya’s, right now.  

“You know you don’t have to be an expert at this.” Kurt held his coffee cup in both hands and he sounded serious. “I’m sure your parents don’t expect it. Just because it’s what they do, it doesn’t mean you have to be perfect at it.”

“I only want to help.”

“I know. Me too. And I think we have, really. But.. you know.” Kurt gave him a considering look. “Small steps. Beginner stuff. Okay?”

They ate, and Blaine took some pictures of Kurt and of the restaurant, including the guys at the bar. It took time to get them all, because they kept going down a hall behind where Kurt and Blaine were sitting. It looked like maybe the bathroom was there, because other patrons went in and out as well, but the guys at the bar stayed back there for a while, so they were probably doing something else. Once, one of them came back with a thick envelope that he placed on the bar next to him. A few minutes later, one of the other guys picked it up, like it had always been his, and put it in his pocket. A pass, just like he’d learned from Cooper back in the apartment. He took a quick note on his phone, trying not to let his excitement show on his face.

The guys at the bar had just finished a long, loud argument about what, from the TV they kept pointing at, seemed to be soccer, when Rachel burst in with a large hobo bag and a long stream of explanations. “I have to exercise my instrument, and if certain mezzos aren’t happy being reminded of the limitations of their own range I can’t be blamed for it. It’s not my fault.”

“Doug and Sarah are very mellow people,” Kurt said. “Let’s go; you can apologize to them tomorrow.”

“Apologize?!”

They were waiting to pay the bill when the guys from the bar all got up and headed out too. One of them went into the main restaurant area, and the buzzcut guy went back down the mystery hallway, but everyone else headed out into the afternoon sun. Blaine caught his breath, not sure what to do next.

“We’ve got everything we needed for class now, right?” Kurt put his hand on Blaine’s shoulder, and that helped steady him.

“Yeah,” he said, letting out a long breath. “We do.” And they did, they had a lot. Blaine imagined his parents’ faces when they learned how good a spy he’d become already. How proud they would be, of both him and Kurt even. It had been a good first solo field op: maybe not a great one yet, but good.  

Back out on the street, he helped Rachel and Kurt find a cab, although Rachel was confused as to why he waved off the first car that stopped. But she didn’t complain, and she even got in the car so they could have a private goodbye without having to be asked.

“Be careful, okay?” Kurt said. He tugged at the edge of Blaine’s denim jacket.

“I will.” It was hard to let Kurt go like this, when the memory of him shuddering in Blaine’s arms the night before was so vivid. But it was the right thing to do, if it would keep him out of danger.  “You too. Text me when you get there.”

“Okay. But it’ll be fine.” Kurt gave one of his small, half-secret smiles. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I will anyway,” said Blaine. He always would.

“I know.” Kurt placed a dry chaste kiss on Blaine’s cheek. “Me too. Get home safe.”

Blaine shut the cab door once both Kurt and Rachel were settled, and he stood on the corner to wave as the car drove off towards Bushwick. When they were finally out of sight, he took a deep breath.

The op had been good so far, but not great, not yet. With Kurt on his way home, and hopefully out of harm’s way, there was more Blaine could do. More he had to do, for his parents’ sakes. He straightened his baseball cap and headed back into the restaurant.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Blaine was ready with a story for why he needed to go back into the restaurant, but the crowd at the hostess’s stand had only grown larger and more noisy. He waved apologetically to her and she nodded as he went back inside.

He made a show of checking under their table for something. The men he’d been watching were still gone from the bar. He tapped the pocket of his denim jacket, felt the phone with their pictures on it safe inside, and went down the hallway he’d seen earlier.

Sure enough, past the bathrooms with their male and female icons, there was another door at the end of the hall. There was a sign on it in Russian that looked like it meant _Manager_ or maybe _Employees Only_. He leaned against the wall like he was waiting for someone to come out of the bathroom, and reached over to try the handle: locked. He held his breath, waiting for someone to call out or come to the door, but no one did. He took a deep breath, and reached into his pocket for the lockpick he stored there. Cooper had been right: you never knew when you would need one.

He’d barely inserted the pick into the lock when the door opened suddenly from the inside. He stumbled forward, pulled by the momentum, and fell against the man on the other side of it. His Mets cap tumbled to his feet; he didn’t pick it up.

The man took Blaine by the shoulders and held him, hard. He was a short bald man with a flattened nose: ugly inside and out, Paul had said, and it was true. In person, he looked uglier, and cruel. He had a gold tooth and a sneer. “Blaine Anderson,” he said. His voice was deep and Slavic. “How convenient.”

He heard someone moving behind him, coming closer, and then everything went dark.

* * * * *

Blaine woke up hurting. There was a throbbing pain at the back of his head, and it radiated out until everything from his ears to his eyes to his sinuses ached. He tried to rub at the ache, but he couldn’t move his hands. They were being held behind his back. He was captured. He...

He forced his eyes open, squinting against the brightness of the light in the room. He was sitting in an office; the ugly guy was sitting at a desk across from him. Leaning on the desk and glowering was one of the muscley guys from the bar, a brown-haired man in his thirties with a bent nose and a neck tattoo.  "Is awake," he said.

"You hit too hard, Sasha," said the ugly man. "Is just little boy, this one."

Blaine pulled at his bonds. They had him in handcuffs, linked through the rails on the back of the sturdy wooden chair. His jacket was gone, and the phone with it, but his clothes and his shoes seemed okay.

"Leave us," said the ugly man. When it was just the two of them, he stood up and crossed in front of his desk. "Blaine Anderson.” His accent twisted Blaine’s name into _Bloiyne_ , made it barely recognizable. “You see I know who you are. And you know who I am too, yes?"

Blaine did. "You’re Shumba."

The man smiled. “You know my name, and I know yours. Now there is no need for pretense between us. Is simple exchange.”

“Exchange?”

Shumba shrugged. “You give me my list, I maybe give you back to your parents in one piece."

Blaine’s stomach heaved. "I don’t know. I don’t have a list."

"You are terrible liar," Shumba said. "Your parents should teach better. You think I don’t know?"

"I don’t know what you think you know." Blaine was trying very hard not to hyperventilate, but it wasn’t really working. “But whatever it is, I’m not part of it. I’m not a spy.”

Shumba’s gold tooth caught the light when he laughed. “Anderson, not a spy. You think I am fool?” He held up the remains of Blaine’s phone, now a mess of crushed metal. “You come looking for my men here because you are not spy?”  

Blaine didn’t reply.

“You think I don’t learn everything about Westlake before I work with them?” Shumba huffed in disgust and shook his head. “Not enough. I was fooled to think they were not working for government. But you cannot fool Shumba twice, not even if you were better liar.”

“I know you must think I’m part of whatever’s going on,” Blaine said. He told himself he was on stage, and tried to use the fear the way he used performance jitters, to power his performance. What was this guy, after all, but another audience? “It’s a reasonable thing to believe, if you’re working with my parents. But I promise you, whatever it is, I’m not part of it. I’m just an ordinary kid.”

“Ordinary kid. I suppose your brother Cooper was ordinary kid when he bug Boris Yeltsin’s office, yes?”

At some point, Blaine would stop being surprised by these revelations. “Cooper chose to follow my parents’ path. I didn’t.” That sounded a lot better than _no one told me anything._

Shumba smacked him across the face, hard, and so fast he didn’t see it coming. The explosion of pain mixed with the headache, and it made him want to vomit.

“I told you. Don’t lie to me, boy. I know your father stole list of my dealers. I know you pick it up. Is nothing left but for me to get it back from you.” Shumba pulled out a pocket knife. He made a show of caressing the handle before expertly flipping it open. “As you Americans like to say, we can do this easy way, or hard way. It would be pity for you to lose your good looks so young. Or maybe we take away good looks from your boyfriend instead?”

Blaine chest tightened at the thought of those men in black who’d attacked him in Lima breaking into Kurt’s loft, dragging him out the door while Rachel screamed.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” he said. It was true, at least.

Shumba shook his head in a show of pretend disbelief. “No? Pretty blond boy who fights for you so brave in Ohio? You don’t recall him?"

Sam. They knew who Sam was, and they knew how to find him. He couldn’t let them go after Sam either, not again.

“Okay. Okay,” Blaine said. “I don’t have the list, but you’re right, you’re right, I did. I gave it to Cooper."

Shumba relaxed a little, folding his arms as he smirked down at Blaine. "And where is your brother now?"

“He went to get us a clean car to leave town in. He didn’t say where.” Blaine hoped like hell that Cooper would be prepared if the Russians found him.

“How long ago?”

“An hour before I got here. Maybe less.” It had been closer to two, but even a little lie made him feel better. Maybe it would give Coop some advantage he couldn’t imagine.

Shumba walked past him and threw open the office door. “Sasha! Get Andrei on phone. I have job for him.” He circled back around to stare down at Blaine. “Andrei will find Cooper Anderson. And then we will see, yes, little boy?”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Blaine said as sincerely as he could.

“We shall see,” Shumba repeated. A man shouted in Russian in the hall. “I go now, talk to Andrei. Sasha will be at door. And you –” Shumba reached into his jacket, exposing a holster. He pulled out a pistol, black and ominous-looking. “You have time to think about what happens to little boys who lie to Shumba.” Shumba walked back to his desk, and laid the pistol down so that it was pointing directly at Blaine’s chest. Even just lying there, with no one holding it, it felt ominous, like it was ready to go off at any moment.

Shumba stalked out, and Blaine was alone in the office. His face burned from the slap and the back of his head still throbbed with pain.

It would be so easy to just sink into the hurt, let it take him under to some place dark and still. That place called to him like a refuge from the awful mess he’d made. But he couldn’t sink under now. Not with Cooper and Sam in danger. Not while he was still a captive.

His handcuffs were wrapped pretty tightly around the rails on his chair. He pulled at them experimentally, looking for give. He felt them move, just a little, so he pulled harder. He could hear the rails rock back and forth now. He put all his weight into it, pushing forward on his seat while he pulled his arms back.

There was a creak, and then another creak as the wood protested. He pulled harder, like he was trying to lift a Cheerio girl into some complicated throw, but nothing happened. He took a deep breath, tucked his chin, and threw his weight backwards as hard as he could.

The noise attracted Sasha, who stuck his bent nose through the office door. When he saw Blaine, still handcuffed to the chair, lying on the floor breathing heavily, he just laughed and shut the door again.

Blaine stayed still until his breathing evened out again. Scarlett Johansson had made this breaking free from a chair thing look way too easy.

He pulled himself over to the right, fighting to turn himself and the chair at once. It felt like when he was little and Cooper would grab him in a tacklehug and not let go. Had that been some weird training move too? Once he’d done that, he tried to lever himself all the way up, but the chair was too heavy: he fell back to the floor with a thud.

Lying on his side was even less comfortable than lying on his back had been. His right arm was pinned under the back of the chair and was starting to go numb. He tried to roll himself over again. The chair rails creaked and – really? – he could feel them starting to give. He rattled his arms as hard as he could. One railing went, and then he had some more leverage on the last two. Ignoring the pain and numbness in his right arm, he pulled hard, again, and again, until he finally heard the satisfying quiet _snick_ of the wooden rails coming out of their seating. He was still handcuffed but at least his hands were free.

Quickly, he pulled his right arm free from under the chair’s weight, and he rubbed his hands together until all the feeling was back in both of them. His feet weren’t chained; they’d just been tied to the chair with rope. He worked his bound hands under his butt and down until he could see the knots on each side. Folded over on his side on the floor, he picked at the knots till he was free. He was going to need a manicure for sure when all this was over.

He shimmied his hands all the way down and over his feet, bringing the handcuffs to the front. Then he stood, as quietly as he could, and tiptoed over to the desk. He stayed away from the direction the pistol was pointing, just to be safe.

He found some paperclips in the top drawer of Shumba’s desk. His right hand must’ve still been a little numb, because it took him a few tries to grab one and unfold it. He went to work on picking the handcuff lock.

Cooper’s voice was in his head. _It’s like – well, okay, maybe sex is a bad metaphor._ Cooper, who had Shumba’s thugs chasing him now, because Blaine had sent them after him. He had to take a deep breath and clear his mind again, the way he did backstage before a show, because his hands had started shaking at the thought of it. Once he felt steady again, he slowly and methodically went back to work. The handcuffs came off more easily than he’d expected, and he left them in a pile on the desk, next to the husk of his burner phone.

The office’s one dirty window looked out on a blank alley. The lock opened smoothly, and the screen came out without protest. Down at the end of the alley, Blaine could see traffic and people walking by: escape. He was halfway out before he realized he should probably take the gun. He stuck it in the waistband of his jeans before he left.

The alley must have led him to the street at the back of Natalya’s, because nothing he saw looked familiar. He tried to walk like he knew where he was going. He heard Russian conversation on the street around him, and he didn’t feel like he could trust a stranger. So he kept looking up, trying to find the elevated subway tracks. If he could just find the tracks, he’d know where he was, and he’d know where he was going. He could hail a cab, although he didn’t have any money, or he could sneak onto the train. Even if jumping the turnstiles got him arrested, at least they’d call his brother for him.

He’d just about given up and was ready to draw some attention to himself by asking for directions when he finally spotted it, the hulking metal and concrete of the elevated train.  It was almost over now; he was going to be safe. He sped up a little, his heart pounding against his chest. Almost there.

He was a block away from Brighton Beach Avenue, with the tracks and the crowds and the stores, when he heard a shout in Russian. It was Shumba, red-faced with anger, coming after him. The other people on the street stepped aside to let Shumba through. Blaine turned down the nearest side street and ran.

He was young and strong and fast, and that gave him an advantage, but he was aching all over and his head still hurt. He needed to lose Shumba quickly, before the beating he’d taken caught up with him. The long line of identical red-brick row houses flew by as he ran, the gun cold metal against his hip. He was so glad he’d worn sneakers.

The next street he turned down wasn’t row houses, but tidy little two-story houses with lawns and front porches and alleys with parking garages at the end. Alleys he could run down and through, and get to the street on the other side. He’d be long gone before Shumba could catch up. He picked a house that looked empty and turned into the alley.

It was a mistake, he realized before he’d even gotten to the end. There was no easy way through, no fence he could easily climb or squeeze past. The only way out was over a six foot concrete wall, which he could maybe do with a running jump and a few tries. But the sound of someone shouting in the street behind him told him he didn’t have that kind of time.

This wasn’t a superhero adventure back at McKinley, or even breaking into Dalton, where the only punishment would’ve been a visit to the headmaster, who still liked him. This wasn’t a video game, where he could start again from the last save. Nothing about it was cool, or exciting, or fun, but he knew what he had to do. There was only one thing he could do. He took a deep breath, pulled the gun out from the waistband of his jeans, and turned around.

Shumba was at the far end of the alley, red-faced and breathing hard.

Blaine held up the gun and tried to look convincing. Sure, he had good aim, but most of what he knew about guns he’d learned from playing video games and laser tag with plastic weapons. This was real. The gun was heavy metal in his sweaty hands. He glared down the alley at Shumba, who mostly just looked amused.

“You’re going to shoot me, little boy?”

“This ends here,” Blaine said. His voice was shaking. “I’m not going to let you hurt my brother, or my parents, or my friends. I may not be who you think I am, but I’m still an Anderson, so you should watch the hell out.”

Shumba held up his hands and took a step towards him. “You don’t have to shoot.”

“I won’t, if you promise to leave us alone.”

“I can’t do that.” Another step closer. “You have intel on all my contacts. That list of all my dealers. Your parents know my couriers. You give all those to FBI, to Interpol, that is very bad for me. For many people who work for me. I have to think of them too, Bloiyne.” He took another step.

“Don’t come any closer,” Blaine said.

“I have to protect my people,” Shumba told him. He was half-way down the alley by now.

“And I have to protect mine.” Blaine tightened his grip on the gun, tested his finger gingerly against the trigger. He could do this if he had to. If that was what it took to make this nightmare stop.

“No one needs to die here, Bloiyne. Is just business. Your brother understands. He will make deal.”

“You stay the hell away from my brother.”

Shumba took another step closer.

“I will shoot you,” Blaine said.

Shumba shook his head, and his expression was almost sad. “You won’t.”

It took everything Blaine had, every bit of nerve and every ounce of fear and concern for the people he loved, to pull the trigger. He pulled hard, bracing himself for the way he knew the thing would kick, and wincing so he wouldn’t have to watch it. The pistol made a clicking sound and did nothing.

“You think I am so stupid to leave loaded gun in room with spy?” Shumba snorted at him, disgusted even in his triumph. “You think I am amateur?” He reached into his jacket and pulled another pistol from its holster. Blaine was willing to bet this one had bullets in it. “Americans. So arrogant they send little boy to do a man’s work. I am Lev Mikhailovich, Shumba the lion! They know me in the Marange fields, in the Kenema District, in Moscow and Chicago. You think you can stop me by yourself?”

The sound of the bullet was like a firework, right up close and loud. Blaine curled into himself, terrified beyond words, and then he realized he wasn’t hit.

Shumba fell forward, lifeless and heavy. Behind him, at the far end of the alleyway, Blaine saw his mother. She was beautiful and fierce, and still in her firing stance, and Blaine knew that he was finally, finally safe.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Blaine’s mom ran down the alley towards him, barely glancing at Shumba’s body on the way.  She still had her gun out, but she kept it pointed down and to the side as she scanned the alley. When she saw that Blaine was alone, she put the gun in a holster on her hip that looked battered and well-used. Blaine held out his weapon, and she took it from him carefully.

“Baby,” his mom said, “are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He nodded because it was all he could do.  She wrapped him up in her arms, and he held on as tight as he could. He buried his face in her hair, breathed her in, and tried not to cry.

“I’m fine, Mom,” he said when he thought he could control his voice again. “I’m... I’m okay. I took a knock to the head, but I’m fine.”

Her gloved hands roamed, searching, over his head; he winced when she found the bump. “That’s a nasty one, but you’ll be all right,” she said soothingly. “You’ll be all right. We’ll take you back to the apartment and put some ice on it, that’ll help.” Her eyes welled up and she hugged him again. “Oh, _Blaine_. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. You saved me. You saved me.” He pulled back a little, confused. “How... how did you know how to find me?”

She smiled, and it was so reassuring Blaine felt weak-kneed at the sight of it. “You’re wearing my tracker. The one Cooper made for me, the ladybug?”

Blaine stepped back enough to pat his hands down his chest. Shumba and his goons had taken his phone, his wallet, and his denim jacket, but the ladybug pin that he’d pinned to his undershirt they’d somehow, mercifully, missed.

“We found Cooper with our car guy. He insisted that we come back to the apartment with him, and I’m so glad, because when we did and you weren’t there...” She shook her head. “We will have a longer conversation about this in a few days, young man, but I am so glad you thought enough to wear a tracker.”

“I’m glad I did too.”  

She nodded shakily at him, her eyes welling with tears. He’d never seen her this emotional before. It was a little scary, seeing his mother so worried and frightened, but it felt sort of important, too, like being let through one of the secret doors into adulthood.

“Dad?” Blaine asked. “And Cooper...?”  

“Cooper is back at base,” she said. She looked steadier with some facts to report. “Your father has the car; he should be right nearby.”

“Okay,” Blaine said. “Then let’s go find him.”

His mother wrapped her arm around his shoulders; he wasn’t that much taller than she was, but it still meant he had to bend over a little to meet her. She put her hand on his head and pulled him in towards her. “When we go past... Blaine, don’t look. I don’t want you to see it.”

“Mom...”

“It’s not something I want stuck in your head, Blaine. Please.”

He sighed, and let her pull him down so his face was buried in her neck as she guided him up the alleyway.

“I can do this myself, Mom,” he told her.

“It doesn’t make you weak not to look,” she said. “It makes you strong.”

They’d passed the body, so she let him go. He blinked back at her, confused.

“I think it makes you a better person than I am,” she said.

He had to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her in close after that, and she rested her cheek on his shoulder. His father was walking up the street; he sped up to a little half-jog as he saw them.

“Status?” he said. His voice was tense.

“Blaine’s got a bad bump on his head, but he’s fine,” she told him. “The target is eliminated.”

He nodded, and touched his ear, listening to something. “Copy that, Base. Package acquired. We’re clear.” Then, turning to his wife again, he said, “Someone reported shots fired. Police are on their way.”

“How do you want to handle it?” she asked.

“You go.” He handed her a set of keys. “The car’s down the street.”

A look passed between the two of them, freighted with things Blaine didn’t understand. His mother kissed his dad lightly on the cheek, and gave him the weapons she’d been carrying. “My weapon, with one shot fired. And Blaine’s.”

“I stole it from him,” Blaine said. He looked back towards the tidy little two-story house. He couldn’t see down the alley anymore. “It wasn’t loaded.”

“Okay,” his dad said.

“He did well, Bradley,” said his mom.

“I don’t doubt it,” Dad said. He looked right in Blaine’s eyes. Blaine swallowed hard. “Good work, son.”

“Thanks,” Blaine managed.

“Don’t do it again.” Dad gave him a wry little smile, and Blaine had to laugh.

“Okay.”

His father clapped a steady hand around his shoulder, and squeezed tightly before he let it go. “I’ll see you back at base,” he told them, and headed into the alley.

“Shouldn’t we stay?” Blaine asked his mother as they got in the car. “I mean, technically, it’s a crime scene, right?” He’d seen enough _Law & Order_ episodes to be worried.

“Oh, no,” Mom said. “Your father will take care of that. He’s so good with cops: he speaks their language.” She pulled out into traffic, heading north towards Manhattan. “The FBI will want to get involved, and Interpol, the State department, probably Customs... he’ll make sure that the initial report gets filed as self-defense. There won’t be charges.”

“But shouldn’t there be an investigation? Some questions?” He was trying to be calm, but his hands were shaking. “I mean, I tried to kill him, Mom. If there’d been bullets in that gun...”

His mother shot him a worried look as she turned the car onto the highway. “Deep breaths, Blaine, okay?”

Blaine nodded, and tried to pull air into lungs that had decided on their own to stop working. It was like everything that had happened was hitting him all at once.

“You’re okay, Blaine,” Mom said. “You’re okay now. Just breathe.”

By the time Blaine felt more under control they’d been driving for a while. The highway was taking them along the oceanside, with the Verrazano bridge in front of them, stretching out towards Staten Island. People were out on the path by the highway, biking or walking or even fishing off the edge. It felt calming to watch them -- regular people going through an ordinary day. The world went on.

“I tried to kill him,” he repeated, quietly. “I would have if I could.”

“You did what anyone would have done under the circumstances,” his mother said sternly. “You were very brave, Blaine, but that’s different from being a killer.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve killed people,” she said. “Professionally. There were a few years there, when your brother was young, when that was most of what I did. I was protecting our nation’s interests, and it meant I had time to spend at home.” It was dizzying to hear her talk about it so openly, the life she’d kept secret for so long, but in a way it was grounding too, like it was proof he and Cooper hadn’t made the whole thing up. “I had to stop, eventually. It does get to you, even if you’re trained for it. But I don’t regret it.”

“Really?”

“Really. Your father and I, people like us, we make the world safer. It’s not always easy work, but it’s work worth doing.”

Blaine thought about his own ambitions: to sing and dance on stage, to live his life with Kurt, to make art and happiness. It all seemed small and silly to him now. Well, not Kurt. But everything else. “I wish I’d known,” he said.

“No, you don’t.” And there was his regular no-nonsense mom, which was almost more comforting than being hugged and called baby. “Blaine, dear, carrying secrets around changes you. And asking you to carry secrets like ours? It wouldn’t have been good for you. And I wanted -- we wanted -- more than anything else for you to have a chance at a normal American upbringing.”

Blaine swallowed hard. “I’m hardly some all-American kid.”

“Of course not. You’re exceptional. You’re a good student, and a good friend, and your talent -- without people like you, what’s the point of saving the world for democracy in the first place?” Mom held out her hand for him, and he took it. “I don’t regret for a minute encouraging you to find your own dreams. Even if that means there are things about each other’s lives that seem strange and foreign.”

“My life seems strange to you?”

She nodded, and she looked a little sad. “For one thing, I can’t imagine ever wanting to get on a stage.”

His mother put both hands on the wheel as they went around a long wide curve, the road following the shoreline, and he tried to feel warm again. He thought about all the things he’d learned in this awful, terrifying week. Kurt had told him that none of it changed who he was at the core, and his mom seemed to think that too. But he wouldn’t ever forget that split-second moment when he was sure he was going to kill in order to survive. To protect the people he loved.

“And you?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I shot a criminal who was threatening my teenaged son’s life. I’m a retired CIA officer with a spotless service record.” She tapped on the turn signal as she merged onto the interstate. “I used a legally-registered gun. If I face any sort of trouble, it’ll be minimal. It’s okay, Blaine. It’s over.”

It didn’t feel over yet. But he leaned his head against the passenger side window and watched the road go by.

*****

He’d barely walked through the door of the Third Avenue apartment when a familiar voice cried “Blaine!” and Kurt was rocking him back on his heels with the force of his hug. Blaine buried his face in Kurt’s shoulder; it was home, and he let himself take comfort there.

“Blaine,” Kurt said as he loosened his grip a little. “I thought you were coming right back here! I was clear about that, wasn’t I?”

Blaine thought back. “Um...”

“I never should have suggested going to Natalya’s in the first place.” Kurt’s scarf was loose, and his  eyes were red-rimmed and wide. “I didn’t think you were going to go rush right back  into danger once I left!”

He really didn’t have an answer for that, other than it had seemed like a good idea at the time. “Not that I’m not so glad to see you, but — how are you even here, Kurt?”

“How am I — ? Your brother called me, is how.”

Cooper stood up from where he’d been sitting at the kitchen table. “We got here and you were gone. It was my first thought, before I even realized you’d left the ladybug’s receiver out for me to find it.”

“And when I told him you weren’t with me, well, I couldn’t just stay home after that. Not knowing you were missing.” Kurt took a deep breath. “And then Cooper told me you were still in that awful restaurant, and I didn’t know if you were safe, or captured, or —  _Blaine_.” Kurt shook his head. “I kept thinking, what if something happened to you?”

He looked so lost at that thought, bleak and solitary, and Blaine couldn’t bear it. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m right here.”

“You’d better stay here.”

Blaine’s heart hadn’t felt so full in months. He leaned in, resting his forehead against Kurt’s. “I will,” he said. “I promise.”

Cooper made coffee, and they sat down to wait for Dad to come back. It reminded Blaine a little bit of the night after the shots were fired at McKinley. He was on the couch, his mother pressed up against his right side, the two of them taking comfort from each other’s warmth and presence. But Kurt was on his left side, drinking coffee and shooting him small private smiles, which was even better. Cooper took one of the armchairs and the last of the chocolate babka from the morning, and he and Kurt chatted a little, aimlessly, about good places to eat downtown. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and Blaine was tired and achey. His mother had brought him an ice pack and some Tylenol for his head, and he felt cared for and safe. He let himself drift a little, just soaking in the moment, and imagining a little other moments like it, down the line. Thanksgivings and Christmases, and just everyday dinners that maybe he and Kurt would host when his parents or Cooper came to town. It was too soon to be thinking like that, he knew. But for the first time in so long it wasn’t scary or painful to think about what might come next. Blaine let his head loll against the back of the couch and the ice pack, and smiled.

The spell was broken when his father came back, full of brusque energy and forward motion. “We’ll do a debrief tonight, then head home first thing tomorrow. Are you up for it?”

Blaine nodded.

“Maybe I should go,” Kurt said. He put his mug down on the coffee table.

“You don’t have to leave, Kurt,” Dad said. “You were in on the op; you should stay.” It was as inclusive as his parents had ever been with Kurt, even when they’d invited him to dinner or family outings back in Lima. It was weird that this was what it took, but it had been a weird week.   

“You know you want to hear the rest of the story,” Blaine said. He tugged at Kurt’s hand until he relented and settled back against the couch again.

Blaine’s father paced back and forth across the small living room area a few times, then frowned. “I don’t like doing this without my whiteboard.”

His mother came as close as Blaine had ever seen her come to rolling her eyes. “I will take notes, Bradley.” Cooper passed her a laptop. “Should we start with this morning?”

“I think we should start a little further back,” Cooper said. “Perhaps with how you got mixed up with a Russian gunrunner in the first place?”

Mom frowned. “You know that part, darling. We were referred in by Chris Brewster as part of the Chiton program.”

“I know about Brewster, yes. What’s the Chiton program?”

Mom shot a worried look at the boys on the couch with her. “It’s... classified. But at a broad level, it’s a series of undercover operations. Experienced officers and contractors posing as, shall we say, morally flexible, in order to get inside of particular criminal organizations.”

“You got people to believe you were bad guys?” Blaine asked.

“It’s not that hard,” said his father.

“So that’s why you got in with Sergeyev; you were going to take him down from inside,” said Cooper, nodding to himself. “And when it turned out he had a whole team of sleazeball mercenaries working with him, you broadened the mission?”

“No, the mission was always the same,” Dad frowned. “Take down the people who buy the diamonds, cut off Sergeyev’s funds, shut him down. If we can also give Chris the names of some of the couriers, so much the better.”

“Blaine got pictures of a whole bunch of those Liberian passports,” Cooper said. “Might not prove anything, but...”

“Good.” Dad’s nod was just like Cooper’s; Blaine hadn’t noticed that before. “That’ll be useful. But the list of dealers is still missing.”

Blaine remembered Shumba standing above him, demanding his list back, and couldn’t help shivering a little. His mother squeezed his arm, reassuring.

“He thought you gave it to me,” Blaine said. His head was hurting again.

“Why would I...? Never mind. Blaine, go over what happened, please.” It was the same way he’d always asked Blaine how his day at school had been, or what he’d learned at his last piano lesson: the same brisk tone, the same engaged but serious expression. Blaine realized that he’d spent his whole life giving briefings to his father without knowing it. Maybe without his father knowing it either.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I went to Natalya’s.”

“We went,” said Kurt. “It was my idea. Just to be clear. But we left the first time without a problem.”

“I kept seeing Shumba’s men go down this hall,” Blaine said. “I only wanted to see what was down there. But he was there, and he recognized me. And...” His hand went up to his head. “He wanted the list back. He threatened to hurt people. To hurt Sam again.” He turned to Kurt; Sam was his friend too. “They know where he lives. I couldn’t risk it.”  

“What did you tell them?” his father asked.

Blaine couldn’t meet his eyes as he admitted it. “I... I told them I gave the list to Cooper.”

Cooper laughed. “Quick thinking! I like it.”

“Really?” The relief was a weight off his chest.

“Really. It’s a believable story, and I’m a lot more equipped to handle those losers than you are. You can play up the naive newbie thing even more next time; you’d be surprised how well it works.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” Mom said. “And this still leaves the question of what happened to that file. We copied the information onto a microdot and put it in a letter to a PO Box back in Lima. Our drop point contact was supposed to pick it up and then deliver the dot when we came back. But when we tried to confirm a meet last week, we got no response. We’re very concerned that she’s been compromised, or worse.”

Dad shook his head. “It’s not like Jan to be out of touch.”

Blaine blinked hard. The connection seemed improbable, but so much this week had been even more unlikely, so... “Um. That’s not by any chance the Jan Parsons who works at the Lima mall, is it?”

“You’ve met her?”

“Your friend from the food court?” Kurt asked. Turning to the rest of the Andersons, he added, “We know where she is; she went to Canada to marry her girlfriend. They’re honeymooning in Vancouver. I got a very weird postcard.”

Blaine’s parents shot each other a concerned look.

“We’re happy for them, of course,” Mom said. “But it’s not like Jan to leave a mission half-done.”

Cooper’s phone rang, and he frowned down at it. “Sorry, need to take this.” He turned on his most dazzling smile as he walked towards the half-bedroom. “Jessica! How’s my favorite casting agent?”

“How was Jan involved?” Kurt frowned. “Is she a spy too? Is everyone a spy except me?”

“She’s just an asset,” said Dad.

“She works for us, but she’s not a trained intelligence operative,” Mom explained. “We got to know her and Liz after we moved to Lima. She’s very handy: the store has a mail-order business in costume jewelry, and so she’s constantly sending things back and forth. One more mailbox at the local shipping store is nothing for her, and it makes our lives a lot easier, not having to worry about keeping files safe in transit.”

“And it gives your mother an excuse to shop for jewelry.”

“Oh, hush. You love that tie clip I got you after Caracas. And how many pairs of cufflinks have I brought home with little flash drives tucked inside the box? Honestly, sometimes I think I’m the least vain person in this entire family.”

Everything was starting to make an awful sort of sense, but Blaine couldn’t bring himself to believe it. “Jan never said anything that made me think she knew you. Did you ever — did she know that you had another son?”

“Oh, yes,” said his mother. She patted his leg. “When you came out to us, she and I had a very good talk. I wanted to understand more about what you might face, being out in Ohio. She always asks after you now.”

Blaine’s stomach sank. “Then I think I know what happened,” he said. “I think I have your list.”

His parents were making sounds of astonishment and confusion, but Blaine couldn’t focus on them at all. He saw Kurt watching him, patient and concerned, and he felt sick. Sure, there was a connection between them, and maybe everything they’d been through over the last few days had made it stronger, but it was still so delicate, so fragile. He could destroy it again so easily. This was not how he wanted to tell Kurt this particular story, not yet.

"It’s in my school bag," he said, turning to his mother. “In the bedroom. Mom, can we go —”

“Cooper!” Mom called. “Would you bring out Blaine’s school bag?"

Cooper leaned out from behind the half-wall, phone in hand, and made an irritated _I’m talking_ gesture. Blaine tried to signal to him to wait, but sure enough, his school bag came flying out from the half-bedroom. Blaine really missed being at home, in a house big enough to run after someone to stop them.

Everyone was watching him, so there was no way around it now. He took a deep breath and unbuckled the bag.

“I didn’t actually meet Jan at the food court,” he said. “I met her in her store. As a customer.” He passed the small velvet box to his mother. “Your microdot’s in there somewhere.”

Mom opened the box. Kurt leaned across the couch trying to see. “A ring? Blaine, you never wear jewelry. Is this part of that new personal style you were talking about? Because — oh!” Kurt’s breath hitched.

There really wasn’t any reason to hope that Kurt, who’d been so excited to work on the annual Vogue.com wedding guide, wouldn’t understand why Blaine had bought a diamond ring. But whatever chance there’d been that he could get out of this with some lame excuse vanished when Blaine looked over at him. Kurt’s face had turned soft with surprise and and confusion and — oh, God, was that pity? The apartment felt small and confining, and Blaine’s head was pounding. He had to get out.

“I’m sorry,” he said, leaping to his feet. “I need — I have to go.”

His mother called his name as he walked out the apartment door, but he didn’t stop.


	14. Chapter 14

It was late Saturday afternoon so the city was quiet — or quieter, at least. Blaine wandered through the streets, trying not to think. He’d woken up that morning sated and warm, with the love of his life by his side. Now he was achy and alone, and everything was his own fault for buying that stupid engagement ring in the first place. He should have realized that Jan was way too nice to him for just some random kid she didn’t know, even a gay kid buying an engagement ring. He should have listened to Sam and waited.

He walked and walked until his feet hurt. He didn’t want to go back to the apartment. He’d have to explain the whole abandoned engagement plan to his parents, to Cooper, and to Kurt. Assuming Kurt hadn’t left in embarrassment and disgust. Maybe Cooper could get Blaine a new identity. Blaine would give up a return trip to Nationals if it meant he could avoid all those awkward conversations.

He’d come to a park, and was debating going in, when the sound of a car horn behind him broke his reverie. He turned and looked: a yellow cab, honking at nothing. He sighed, and turned back towards Madison Avenue.

The taxi honked again, and behind it other cars took up the refrain. Blaine frowned and turned to see it again. The cab was... following him? Following him, slowly, and the traffic behind it was starting to build up.

Before Blaine had a chance to worry if this was some other Russian diamond cartel member come to get him, the taxi’s back window rolled down, and Kurt waved wildly from inside. “Blaine!”

Blaine felt nauseated. He kept walking.

“Blaine! Would you come here, please?” The cab kept following him. “Blaine, just get in the car.”

People were watching them now. Blaine put his head down and tried to be inconspicuous.

“Mister, we are blocking traffic,” the cab driver complained. “I will get a ticket.”

“I can’t — oh, for crying out loud. Fine. Fine!”

Blaine heard the slam of the car door and the cab speeding up as it pulled away. Kurt fell into step alongside him.

“You left the tracker pin on,” Kurt said. “Made you kind of easy to find.”

Blaine shrugged. Everything he wanted to say — _it was just a joke_ and _no it wasn’t; marry me_ and everything in between — seemed inadequate.

They came to the end of Madison, and a busy four-lane street to cross. Kurt took his hand and pulled him back towards the park. “Come on. We’ll go to [Shake Shack](http://www.shakeshack.com/location/madison-square-park/) and get burgers.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“All right. We’ll go to Shake Shack and you can buy me a shake.” Kurt was in his determined mode, so Blaine didn’t even argue that Shumba had taken his wallet; there wasn’t much point, when Kurt got like this. He let himself be handled into the line of waiting tourists, shrugged apologetically when Kurt had to take out his own wallet, and waited patiently for Kurt’s strawberry milkshake to come out of the tiny take-out window. Nothing about Kurt showed disgust or unhappiness or even impatience with Blaine, and the awful churning feeling started to ebb away.

“So,” said Kurt. They’d found a bench a little bit away from the Shake Shack stand. Curious pigeons clustered by their feet. “Do you think you can tell me about it?”

Blaine shrugged. “What’s there to tell?”

“Blaine. You were going to ask me to marry you?”

“I...” Blaine swallowed, and tried again. “I wasn’t going to ask you out of the blue or anything. I thought things were going well. You stayed in Lima an extra week, you sang with me in the auditorium, everything. It was good.”

“It was,” Kurt agreed.

“So I was thinking I would ask you if we could be boyfriends again. You know, officially. And then, when you said yes, I was going to show you how serious I was about it by proposing.”

“But you didn’t. Not any of that.”

The memory still stung. “I saw how you were on the phone with Adam. When he called, during Mr. Schue’s wedding? You were in love with him, Kurt. I didn’t have the right to interfere. So...” He shrugged again.

“Oh.” Kurt took a long sip of his shake. “Well. I don’t know about _love_. You know, me and Adam. Paul. Whatever. I mean, I liked him. Or I liked who I thought he was. He was kind to me when I needed kindness. And I really thought I wanted it to work out with him. But maybe that was a lie too.”

“Oh?” Blaine caught his breath.

“When you and Cooper showed up at that warehouse, when I was being held captive? It was like I felt safer and more scared, all at the same time, because you were there too. And then last night, you kissed me, and I wanted more.” Kurt bit his lip. “It was selfish of me --”

“It really wasn’t.”

“I took what I wanted, and then I pushed you away. That was selfish.”

“You didn’t push me away,” Blaine insisted. “We had a good conversation about it in the morning. I didn’t expect anything more than what happened.”

Kurt didn’t look convinced. “But you would’ve wanted more.”

“Well,” Blaine said. “I did buy you a ring.”

There was nothing to say after that. Blaine sat and watched the line at the Shake Shack slowly move towards the registers.

Kurt was the one to break the silence. “When I was in the cab back to your apartment, after Cooper called? I kept thinking about it. About last night. And what if -- what if that had been the last time?” He looked anguished at the thought. “If he had killed you, and I never got to see you, or hold you, or even talk to you again? And I realized, I never really imagined not being with you again. Like I always thought somewhere, in the back of my mind, that I’d turn a corner one day and there you’d be.” His eyes were welling up. “My Blaine.”

“I am, you know.” Blaine could hear his voice wobbling with emotion, but he met Kurt’s eyes, determined to make him see how much he meant every word. “If you want me to be. I’m still yours.”

Kurt looked away. “I wish you’d said something.” He wrapped his arms around his chest. “I hate to think of you carrying that ring around and thinking...”

“I didn’t want to hear you say no. It was easier to keep it my secret.”

“Secrets are what landed us in this whole stupid mess to begin with,” Kurt said miserably. “If we try this again, Blaine, we’re going to have to be honest with each other.”

“What?” Blaine wasn’t sure he’d heard that right.

Kurt took another long sip through his straw. “Look,” he said, in a more normal tone of voice, “I understand you grew up in a family full of professional secret keepers and apparently also super-spies -- which puts a whole new light on so many incidents from high school, let me tell you -- but still. That doesn’t mean that keeping what you’re feeling a secret is a good idea. I’m not the world’s biggest fan of uncomfortable conversations either. But I guess if I’ve learned anything over the last couple of years, it’s that sometimes they’re worth having. They aren’t always as terrible as you think they’ll be.”

Blaine nodded. “Can we go back to the trying this again part?”

“I said _if_.”

Blaine reached over and took Kurt’s free hand in both of his own. “Kurt. Do you think I could I ask you to be my boyfriend again?”

Kurt smiled at that a little, almost shyly, and it was like the sun coming up. “I don’t know,” he said, pulling his hand back. “Could you?”

Blaine laughed. “Oh my God. Can we be boyfriends again? For real?”

Kurt looked at him over the top of his shake. “Are you going to continue your new career as an international man of mystery?”

“No.” Blaine winced. “I’m really, really not.”

“Are you done being a cheater too?”

“Absolutely,” he said, and he hoped Kurt could hear just how much he meant that.

“And will you wear bowties again?”

“Are you trying to dictate my personal style?”

Kurt’s nose scrunched. “It was just a suggestion.”

“Kurt, you can have my heart, and my soul, and my entire future. But I still get to pick my own clothes.”

Kurt gave him a considering look. “Okay,” he said. “Yes, we can be boyfriends.”

Blaine grinned so wide his face hurt. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“No,” Kurt said gravely. “I’m going to kiss you.” He put a hand on the back of Blaine’s neck and pulled him in. His kiss tasted of ice cream and fresh strawberries, and Blaine was suddenly ravenous.

When they pulled apart, it was thrilling to see the goofy dazzled happiness he felt shining in Kurt’s eyes too. “I love you so much."

“I love you too,” Kurt said. For the first time in too long, he didn’t seem conflicted or unhappy about it. “Let’s just try being boyfriends long-distance, and not rush into anything beyond that, okay? I need some time to get used to the idea.”

“Okay. That makes sense.” Blaine gave him the most sincere look he could manage with his heart still so bubbly and light. “But you should know I had a truly spectacular marriage proposal in the works, and you will be missing out on that.”

“I don’t want to hear about it, Blaine.” Kurt’s voice turned serious and stern, and for an awful second, the churning feeling rose in his gut again. Then Kurt met his eyes, and he could tell that behind that flat expression, Kurt was fighting back a grin. Eventually, the fight stopped. “When the time comes, I want it to be a surprise.”

Blaine was giddy with relief as he took Kurt’s hand again. He’d have to send another email to the headmaster at Dalton: maybe he could still propose there if Kurt came back for graduation. Or maybe he’d change the plan and ask at prom — if he could teach all the seniors some simple dance moves in advance, and that wouldn’t be so hard, not _really_...

*****

When Blaine got back to the apartment, his Wal-Mart bag of awful clothing was carefully packed up and waiting by the door, and his parents’ wheelie suitcases were parked next to it. Cooper’s leather tote wasn’t with them, and Cooper and his mom were nowhere to be seen. His father had the door to one of the cabinets open, and was checking on something inside it with a flashlight.

“Good, I could use some help.”

“Where’d Mom and Cooper go?” Blaine asked.

“Running errands. Hold this door for me, please.”

Blaine came over to kneel by the cabinet and put a hand on the door.

“No, hold it up,” his father said. “I’m fixing the hinge.”

Blaine put his hands under the door and tried to lift. Sure enough, it moved a little, and he held it at the top of its field of motion while his father removed one of the hinge screws.

“Head’s okay?”

“It’s fine.”

“Did Kurt find you?”

Blaine was surprised by the question. “Yeah. He went home afterwards.” They’d said their goodbyes at the subway station by the park, with promises of phone calls and Skype sessions and return trips to come. Kurt turned back and waved at him again from the bottom of the subway stairs. Blaine had forgotten what it felt like to be this happy.

“He was on comms with Cooper when we went to get you,” Dad said. “Handled himself well. He’s grown into a good man in a crisis.”

Blaine thought that Kurt had always been good in a crisis — at everything, basically — but he didn’t argue.

“You want someone you can rely on. In the long-term.”

Wait, was his father approving of him proposing to Kurt? Blaine looked over the cabinet door to judge his dad’s expression, but he was turned away, focusing his attention on the screw he was putting back into place in the hinge.

“It’s not easy, marriage,” Dad continued. “A lifetime mission that could go south any second. When I met your mother, I was twenty-four. Married at twenty-five, a father by twenty-seven. I don’t regret any of it, Blaine. But nobody gets to be my age without a few what-ifs. You want to be as certain as you can be of your choices.”

This was pretty much always how his dad talked about things, with almost too few words for Blaine to make sense of it. Usually Blaine would just try to let it drop. But the conversation with Kurt had made him think. Maybe not talking about the important things wasn’t that far from keeping secrets. Maybe keeping too many secrets made it hard to talk about anything at all. “I don’t understand. Are you saying that you think I should propose to Kurt, or I shouldn’t?”

His father looked up at that and frowned. “Neither. It’s not my call. You’re grown up now, or almost. You make your own choices. Kurt’s a fine young man. I just want you to be sure.”

“I am sure about Kurt,” Blaine told him. “But we’re going to try being boyfriends again first.”

“Well, that’s good.” Dad sat back on his heels, closed the cabinet door, nodded to himself, then opened and closed it again. “Good work.”

Just then, the apartment door opened, and whatever Blaine was going to say next tumbled away as his mother and brother came in, carrying plastic bags bulging with purchases. “We are all stocked up,” said Mom. “Snacks for the trip home, supplies for this place, and a few days’ fresh food for your brother.”

“I have an audition,” Cooper told him. “A part on _The Carrie Diaries_. They need someone right away for a couple of days’ work, and I’m here in town, so I’m going in tomorrow to read.”

“That’s great,” Blaine said. “Break a leg.”

“And to celebrate the success of our operation — and of course Cooper’s audition — we’re going out to dinner. If you’re up for it, sweetheart.”

“My head is fine, Mom.” It still hurt a little, but otherwise he was okay. Certainly okay enough to have dinner with his family.

“It’s kind of a nice place, too. You should wear that cardigan you had on the day I rescued you: that’ll work. And here —” Cooper rooted through one of his bags. When he found what he was looking for, he threw it directly at Blaine, who caught it on a reflex. It was a tub of his favorite hair gel. “Figured you could use that.”

Blaine told himself he was absolutely not going to cry.

*****

Cooper’s “kind of a nice place” turned out to be an extremely fancy restaurant called Del Posto, all the way across Manhattan in Chelsea. Blaine was really glad he’d looked his best that last day at school, because all the waitstaff were in suits or tailored black dresses, and the people at the tables looked dressed up and rich.

“How’d you get us in here at the last minute?” Blaine asked.

Cooper made an unsuccessful attempt at a modest shrug. “I may have pulled a few strings.”

The restaurant was inside an old building that must have been a factory or a warehouse. There were big solid columns throughout the large room, and tall windows covered by drapes. The decor was all dark wood and plush fabrics, and the lights were kept low and intimate. Blaine tried hard not to look as impressed as he felt.

The waiter who took their orders was a middle-aged guy with a Boston accent. He pinged Blaine’s gaydar even before he flirted with Cooper over his cocktail order; Cooper, of course, remained oblivious. They ordered their meals, and Blaine ate a piece of focaccia when it was brought to the table. His stomach rumbled appreciatively.

“We’re going to have to talk about the future,” his mother finally said.

“What do you mean?” Blaine asked.

“You’re aware of the true nature of our business now, dear. That makes some things easier, and maybe certain other things more difficult.”

“Which reminds me,” said Cooper. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a new iPhone. He slid it across the table to Blaine. “I already migrated your account, so you’re good to go.”

The lock screen picture was a snapshot from when Blaine was little, him and Cooper sitting together on the front steps of their house. Blaine was in a cowboy costume, and Cooper had a sheriff’s star pinned to his polo. “Thank you.” He’d replace it with a picture of Kurt when he got home, but this was nice for now.

He unlocked the phone: everything really was there. He sent Kurt a quick text: _Got my phone back xx_ and another to Sam: _are you OK?_

“I installed a backdoor, but I probably won’t ever need to use it.”

“Hey!”

“I had a backdoor on your old phone too, squirt. At least now you know about it.”

Dad cleared his throat. “Which, to bring us back on-topic...”

“Yes, thank you, Bradley. We’re going to have to ask that you continue to contact us through our Anderson & Associates cellphones, Blaine: we have to maintain our legend. But we can provide ways of reaching us more efficiently in an emergency. And if we can run some of our operations from the house, perhaps we can be at home a little more.” She smiled a little wistfully. “It would be nice to have these last few months before you go off to college.”

“And then when you move out, we can use your dorm as a drop site; it’ll be really convenient,” Cooper added.

“First of all, who said I’m moving into a dorm? And you can’t just treat me like a prop. That’s not cool.”

“Boys,” said their father. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“The most important thing is that nothing important needs to change.” The waiter came back with the wine they’d ordered, and Mom paused to go through the ritual of tasting and approving their bottle. “We’re still the same family we were before.”

Blaine’s phone buzzed.

 _I’m fine! RU OK??_  from Sam.

_Yes! See u tmw._

“No texting at the table.”

“Oh, come on, Dad. He just got back together with his boyfriend. That’s who it was, right?”

“No, it was Sam. Who is fine, by the way, thank you for asking.” His phone buzzed again. _< 3 <3 <3._ Blaine couldn’t help blushing a little. “That one was Kurt.”

The waiter was pouring wine into the glasses on the table. When he got to Blaine, he hesitated for a moment, then poured a glass for him, too, without even asking for ID. When Blaine looked up at him, he winked conspiratorially. Being gay in New York was clearly going to be a lot more awesome than Ohio.

They’d made it through the first course and the first glass of wine and Cooper’s explanation of his strategy for tomorrow’s audition before Blaine managed to find the words he needed. “I was thinking,” he said, “about what you said before, Mom. About how nothing needs to change. And, well, I don’t know. Maybe it should.”

“Is there a problem?” His father looked displeased at the idea.

“Not really, but — there are all sorts of things we don’t tell each other.”

“Most of our work we can’t discuss.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Dad. I feel like maybe I never really knew anything about you guys. Any of you.”

“That’s not true,” Mom said.

“Where did you really go on your first date?” Blaine had heard the story a hundred times, demanded it over and over again when he was a little boy: the diner with the clumsy waitress, the apple pie his parents had shared, the stories they’d swapped about summer camp, how his father had sung “Goodnight, Irene” before getting in his car and heading home.

“A diner,” she said firmly. “It was just like we told you. Except the diner was near the Farm, not UVA.”

“You really talked about summer camp?”

Mom’s expression turned guilty. “Favorite handguns.”

“I’d never met a woman who was so good with a Glock.”

“Your father had a weakness for the Sig Sauer I still find inexplicable.”

“This story has gotten weird,” Cooper said. “I liked the summer camp version better.”

“But it wasn’t true,” Blaine said. “The real story is definitely a lot more violent, but at least it’s the truth. It’s who you guys are. My friend Sam taught me that you’re only as sick as your secrets.”

“Hippies,” Dad sniffed.

“It’s true. Sam and I are even closer than we were back when I was keeping things from him because I thought he wouldn’t want to know them. Me and Tina, even me and Kurt —”

“Kurt _and I,_ dear.”

“Kurt and I,” Blaine repeated. “We told each other the truth, and now we’re boyfriends again. Things are better. And I want them to be better between us too. So I’ll try to tell you things from now on, even when it’s hard. And maybe you could try to do the same, some of the time?”

Of course this was the moment that the waiter and a busboy came back with their next course, and to check in on the table, but the teary look in his mother’s eyes and the thoughtful looks in his dad’s and Cooper’s made Blaine think that maybe, maybe he’d gotten through.

“You know,” said his father, once they’d been served, “this whole honesty thing would be a lot easier if you wanted to be part of the business. We’d get you clearance.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Blaine said, and actually, he did, sort of. “But I think I’m just going to go to college. I’m not really cut out for a life of adventure.”

“Not everyone is,” said Cooper. He gave Blaine a smug look as he took a bite of gnocchi.

“Says the man who dragged his brother into clandestine ops with no training.” Mom gave Cooper a very pointed look.

“And you called in a favor from MI-6 instead of doing some research for yourself,” said Dad. “You have to think about these things more strategically.”

“And, darling, I think it’s time for you to upgrade the security system at the apartment again, don’t you? I know it’s easy to get sloppy about these things but — ”

“Excuse me,” said Cooper. “I have a call I have to make.” He pushed back from the table and stomped off towards the restaurant door.

“Um,” said Blaine. “Do you think maybe you were a little hard on him?” His parents both stared at him quizzically. “I mean, the mission was a success, right? And I was fine. It was only when I stopped listening to Cooper that I got in trouble.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” said his father.

“See, this is exactly what I was talking about,” Blaine replied. “I’m being honest with you, so could you at least try to be honest with me?”

Dad sighed, and Blaine could see him debating internally what to say and how to say it. “Cooper’s a fine young man,” he said, finally. “Such a gift for the work. Real potential. But a lot left to learn. We’ve kept Westlake small, but we’re getting older. He could grow it into one of the greats, if he wants to. If he focuses.”

Blaine thought of all the performances he’d done with Cooper, and all the critique sessions that had come after, eating at his sense of accomplishment. At least he knew where his brother got it from. The only thing that had made it better was — “Have you told him any of this?”

His father looked surprised. “He knows it.”

“Maybe.” He remembered a long-ago conversation in the McKinley auditorium, and how much it had mattered when Cooper told him he was talented. “Sometimes it helps to say it.”

Dad still looked unconvinced, but Mom smiled. “You’re so grown up, Blaine.”

Cooper didn’t come back to the table until the second course had been cleared away and a new bottle of wine had been opened. He was smiling, but it was a fake smile. “Sorry about that,” he said, smoothly moving his napkin back onto his lap. “Time zones. You know how it is.”

“Cooper,” said Mom. “I haven’t had a chance to say it, with everything being so hectic, but thank you for taking care of Blaine. He was in real danger, and you protected him.”

Cooper looked surprised, but quickly recovered. “Sure. Of course. That’s what we do, right?”

Mom reached over and squeezed his hand in reply.

“And the Japan job went well?” Dad asked.

Cooper nodded. “Exactly to plan. Easy money.”

“As I’d expect.” Across the table, Mom cleared her throat. Dad frowned and tried again. “Your work is generally very good. I’m not surprised.”

Blaine could barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. His father was going to need a lot of work in the expressing his feelings department.

Cooper looked like he was waiting for the punchline. “Thanks? The ad was a good cover.”

“What was making that ad even like?” Blaine asked. “Did you have a translator on set?”

Cooper gave him a considering look, like he knew what Blaine had done and was studying him to determine his motives. Then he relaxed, and he leaned back against the upholstered chair, and smiled. “It was a _trip_ , Blainey. Let me tell you...”

Cooper had always been good with an audience, even a small one, and the story of his time on the set of a Japanese whiskey commercial was a fun one to listen to. The translators, the assistants who’d brought him endless cups of tea, the cameraman who was upset when Cooper didn’t hit his mark exactly the same way every take: Cooper brought them all to life, and Blaine realized that when he wasn’t trying to be bad at it, his brother really was a pretty decent performer. All of the Andersons took turns trying to say the commercial’s tagline, _sekai saikō no uisukī_ : Blaine stumbled through it on his third try, while his father’s pronunciation was so fluent there were probably a few operations in Japan in his history. They were laughing about another of Cooper’s stories, this one about his failed attempt to speak Japanese to his hotel concierge, when someone came to the table. Not their waiter, this time, but a burly red-bearded man in chef’s whites.

“Evening, folks. Enjoying your meal?”

“Chef!” Cooper sprang to his feet. “I didn’t know you would be here tonight.”

“I try to stop in when I can. And when I heard that my favorite credit ratings report site spokesman was here...” The man gave Cooper a hearty handshake and a slap on the arm. “I met this guy at a fundraiser for my foundation. By the end of the night, he had the whole crowd in a conga line. I never got so many donations.”

“I can’t help it if wealthy widows adore me.” In full semi-famous-idiot mode, Cooper even shrugged charmingly. “Chef, I want you to meet my folks. My parents, Bradley and Serena Anderson, and my kid brother Blaine. Everyone, this is Mario Batali. This is his restaurant.”

Kurt had one of Mario Batali’s cookbooks back in Ohio. Blaine wondered if he should ask for an autograph.

“Ah, it’s me, and Joe and Lydia, and the whole devoted crew here. I can only take a little bit more than my fair share of the credit. You folks live here in the city?”

“No,” said Mom. “We have our own market research firm back in Ohio. But Blaine will be moving here for college in the fall.”

“No kidding,” said the chef. “Well, welcome in advance, Blaine.”

“Thank you,” Blaine said.

“It’s good to see you all having such a nice time here. What a lovely family.”

Blaine looked around at his parents, comfortable and relaxed, and his brother, so charming and outgoing. How happy they all were. Chef Batali was right: they were sort of lovely, all of them together. Blaine felt really lucky to be part of it.

His phone buzzed again, and he reached for it out of habit. It was from Kurt, and there was a picture. Blaine blinked to make sure he was seeing what he thought he saw. It was a picture of a ring, a simple silver band, with contrasting rings of polished metal at the top and bottom. Below it, Kurt had texted _No diamonds!_

Blaine caught his breath as the meaning of Kurt’s message sunk in. No diamonds, something simple, sure, he could totally work with those requests. Maybe he could bring the picture to Jan, get her to try to match it: as long as she didn’t try to use him as a courier again, she was a pretty good jewelry salesperson.

“Sweetheart?” said his mother.

Blaine looked up. Chef Batali was gone, and all of his family were looking at him with something between amusement and concern. He must have been staring at his phone for longer than he’d realized.

“An interesting message, I take it?”

“Sorry,” he said automatically, and slid the phone in his pocket. He was going to change the topic, go back to talking about Cooper or something, but then he stopped himself. Maybe the things that mattered to him weren’t matters of national security. But if he couldn't share what was going on with his family, then who could he share it with?

“Actually, you know,” he said. “It was. There’s kind of a long story behind it.”

“It’s a five-course meal,” said his father. “We have time.” And then he winked.

Blaine could barely believe it. “Well,” he said finally, and he couldn’t help grinning. “I guess it starts back at McKinley, with Regionals. And Kurt.”


	15. Epilogue

_November 28, 2013_

“Our second annual orphans’ Thanksgiving and dance party,” Kurt said with a satisfied sigh.

“And Hanukkah,” Rachel said, the way she said every time.

Kurt rolled his eyes adorably. “Yes, Rachel. And Hanukkah. The sweet-potato pancakes are on the table. But you’re responsible for making sure none of the drag queens’ wigs catch on fire after you light the menorah. Some of those girls are messy drunks.”

Blaine smiled. Kurt had told him all about the first Thanksgiving in the loft as they planned this evening. It sounded fantastic, like everything you could hope for in a real New York City party, and he was so happy he got to be here for the second one. They’d pushed all of the furniture off to the sides of the loft, or stored it in the bedroom areas, and the kitchen table was covered with food, ready to go, buffet-style. There was even a tofurkey, though Kurt had threatened not to kiss him all night if he tried it. Blaine didn’t really believe the threat, but he planned on sticking to real turkey anyway, just in case.

Rachel harrumphed lightly as she put the menorah on the shelf over the stove, well away from anywhere someone’s hairdo might find it. “It’s a literally once in a lifetime moment of congruence, Kurt, we should take the time to notice it. Not to mention, my version of ‘Ma’oz Tzur’ always left the entire congregation of Beth Israel of Lima in tears.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” said Blaine.

“Let’s make sure we have enough cranberries,” Kurt said, already back in party prep mode. “Those were a much bigger hit than I expected.”

They were ready at exactly six pm, just like the evite said, but of course no one came to the door on the dot. Kurt opened a bottle from the case of Beaujolais Nouveau they’d gotten, and poured everyone a glass. “To traditions new and old,” he said, and they all clinked their glasses together. The best Thanksgiving ever, absolutely.

By six-thirty, the first guests were starting to trickle in, mostly friends of Rachel’s who’d been told to be there early for the candle-lighting. They were standing around talking and eating, and the mood was still pretty mellow. Kurt was carving more meat off the turkey when the next knock came at the door, so Blaine went and got it.

“Blainey!” Cooper was dressed in a tweed blazer and khakis; he looked professorial, if professors looked like TV actors. He was carrying a bottle of red wine, and had his other arm wrapped around his date. She had green eyes and wore her blonde hair in a sharp, pointed bob: she looked intelligent and a little intimidating. “Meet Lucretia.”

“Nice to meet you,” Blaine said automatically. “Cooper’s mentioned you; you live near Russ & Daughters, right?”

“You have a good memory.” Lucretia’s voice was a smoky English alto, and her smile was wider than Blaine would have expected. “It’s nice to meet you too.” Her heels clicked loud on the loft’s wooden floors as they came in.

“Look, Blainey,” Cooper said urgently as Lucretia examined the buffet. “I invited someone else too. I don’t want it to be awkward.”

“Awkward?” Blaine frowned. “Why would it be awkward?”

“Oh, hey! Are those sweet-potato latkes?” Cooper headed to the buffet table. Blaine just shook his head. Nothing he’d learned or been through since he’d found out about his family’s espionage business made his brother any less annoying.

It was about ten minutes later when the next knock came at the door. Blaine hurried to get it, but Kurt was already most of the way there. He opened the door and there, on the other side, was Paul Tennison, with a smile on his face and a pastry box in his hands. Blaine held his breath.

“Oh, uh, hi,” said Kurt. “Um...”

“Cooper invited us,” Paul said. “I hope it’s all right?”

Blaine’s heart sank. This was what Cooper had meant. How could it not be awkward?

“Um.” Kurt was trying to regain his composure, but Blaine could tell he was still flustered. It wasn’t like they didn’t pass each other in the halls at school, but as far as Blaine knew, they hadn’t really talked since they broke up. “Cooper? Yeah, I guess. All right. Sure.” He stepped back. “Come in.”

Paul came through the door. A step behind him was another man: dark, lean, and handsome, with strong cheekbones and a sharp chin. He was wearing a fitted three-piece suit in a light plaid, and he had large ornate rings on his hands.

“Kurt,” said Paul, “I’d like you to meet Tinashe Nandoro. He’s a very old friend of mine, in the States for a visit.”

“Oh.” Kurt looked surprised. “Well, welcome to America.”

“It is not my first trip,” said Tinashe. His voice was deep and musical. “But thank you.”

“And this is Kurt Hummel,” Paul continued. “We met at NYADA.”

Tinashe looked at Kurt consideringly. Kurt stood a little taller and considered him back. It made Blaine think for a moment of a Discovery channel documentary about predators. He held his breath. “It’s a pleasure,” Tinashe finally said. “Any friend of Adam....” He hit the pseudonym a little too heavily, but Paul grinned anyhow.

“Likewise,” Kurt said carefully.

Blaine stepped a little closer and tried to break the tension. “Can I offer either of you a drink?”

“Oh, yes,” said Paul. “And this is Blaine. Cooper’s brother.”

“My fiancé,” said Kurt.

Paul’s eyes went a little wide at that, and Blaine had to hold back a smirk. It was probably bad form to gloat at your future husband’s ex-boyfriend, even if you really wanted to.

Tinashe’s expression didn’t change, but Blaine thought maybe his shoulders had gone a little more relaxed at the news. “Congratulations,” he said to them both. “You make a lovely couple.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said. “Won’t you come in?” He smiled at them both then, a real smile, and the mood lightened. With a brush of his hand against Paul’s, Tinashe drifted off towards the buffet. All three of them watched him as he went.

“So,” Paul finally said. “You two are having another another go of it. And engaged? Congratulations.”

“Congratulations to you too,” said Kurt. He reached out his hand to the side, just a little, and Blaine stepped closer to hold it.

“To me?” Paul looked surprised. “Whatever for?”

“The Charles Casey arrest?” Kurt lowered his voice. “I presume you were involved.”

“Oh,” Paul said.

Charles Casey’s arrest had been front-page news earlier in the month: a teacher in NYADA’s theater tech department, funnelling money and weapons to a radical Real IRA splinter group. He’d held meetings to attract new donors in the tech department work rooms after hours. _CURTAINS DOWN!_ said the _New York Post_ headline, with a picture of the cops taking Professor Casey away. It was a big enough story that Carmen Tibideaux had to release an official statement, and there’d been news vans and NYPD cars outside the main NYADA building for days.

“Well, it’s true, Mr. Casey was my advisor. Tech is a small program, and we’d become quite close,” Paul said. “But I’m just a university student; I wouldn’t know anything about international terrorism.”

“Of course,” Kurt said. “But still. I’m glad our school isn’t a terrorist meeting-place anymore, whoever’s responsible for that. ”

Paul nodded. “Entirely unrelatedly, of course, I’m leaving NYADA next week, before the end of term. My dad’s retiring, and I’m needed back in Essex to help with the Crawford family motorcycle shop.”

“Is this a good thing?”

“Oh, yes. I love New York. It’s epic. But I’m ready to be back on more familiar ground.” Paul’s eyes drifted over to where Tinashe stood near the drinks table before he focused back on Kurt, warm and sincere. “I’m glad Cooper invited me, though. Gives me a chance to say a proper goodbye.”

“Then I’m glad you could come,” Kurt said.

Blaine squeezed Kurt’s hand gently, and then let go. He could be okay with Kurt and Paul having a goodbye just to themselves. Kurt had accepted his proposal, after all. They had promised each other forever, and Kurt wore his ring to prove it. He slept curled up alongside Kurt every night. The bad times were over. He tried to ignore the little curl of jealousy in his chest, and went to get some more wine.

Back over in the kitchen area, Cooper had already gathered a group of NYADA admirers around him. “Never make eye contact with your scene partner. It ruins the emotional truth of the moment.”

“Excuse me,” Blaine said. “Can I borrow my brother?”

Cooper grinned at his admirers. “I’ll just be a minute," he told them. He put an arm around Blaine’s shoulders as they walked away together. “Little brother!”

“Cooper, do you really think that gaslighting NYADA students is an appropriate use of your counterintelligence skills?”

“You know, I still think it’s so awesome that you know about that, I’m going to ignore how you sounded exactly like Dad just then.”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You should have told us that you were inviting, uh, Adam.”

“Almost a good save,” Cooper muttered. In his normal voice he said, “It was kind of a last-minute thing. I didn’t think you’d mind, after the giant cornball proposal and everything.”

“I don’t,” Blaine lied. “It’s just, _Adam_ didn’t know about the proposal. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable at Thanksgiving. Even if it isn’t really his holiday.”

“Hmmm, I don’t think he’s uncomfortable, kiddo. I mean, sure, awkward, but have you seen the guy he came in with? His ‘old friend’? Do you think maybe that guy looks like someone else you know?”

Blaine looked across the room. Tinashe was talking to a NYADA student with really complicated hair. It looked like they were comparing jewelry. “I don’t...”

“You don’t see it? Bone structure, fashion sense, general gestalt?” Cooper sighed when Blaine shook his head no. “I’m just saying, based on the evidence, Kurt wasn’t the only one who came into that relationship with baggage. And maybe he’s not the only one who’s found a happy ending, either.”

Blaine looked back over at Tinashe. Paul had come to join him in the conversation, and had a hand on the small of his back. They did look really comfortable together. He wondered how long they’d known each other. “How does that even work? Dating, when you’re... on the job.”

Cooper rolled his eyes. “I’m going to need a lot more alcohol and some privacy to explain that one. It’s generally easier to date other, ah, professionals, but it still ends up involving paperwork if you get serious.”

“So Lucretia is, um, an actor? Like you?”

“Yeah. We met at a professional function, as it happens. Don’t go thinking we’re serious, though — you and Kurt are going to be the ones to make those fat happy grandbabies Mom wants.”

“You know that’s not really how that works, right?”

Cooper just laughed. He tweaked Blaine’s bowtie and then he was gone, heading for the table they’d set up as a bar.  Blaine shook his head and started picking up some of the abandoned dirty plates and glasses.

The party started to get louder as more guests appeared: drag queens, club kids, go-go dancers, the hipster boys from downstairs with their tragic mustaches, people from the diner and from school and from Rachel’s show. Sam showed up and immediately claimed a spot behind the bar, pouring wine and making cocktails. He did body rolls every time he used the cocktail shaker, and he gained an appreciative audience pretty quickly. Blaine danced with Kurt, with Rachel, with a super-hot drag queen in four-inch heels, and with Lucretia, who was surprisingly light on her feet. Kurt and Santana led the crowd in singing “Get Lucky” and Kurt smiled at Blaine the whole way through it. It was perfect.

Still, Blaine couldn’t stop himself from keeping track of where Paul Tennison was at the party. Not all the time, of course, but every so often, he’d find him in the crowd: dancing with Tinashe, filling a plate at the buffet, laughing about something with a NYADA student. It wasn’t that Blaine was worried: it was just weird having him there.

The song coming through the speakers changed: the new Britney. The thumping beat had the dance floor full almost immediately, but Blaine held back, scanning the crowd for Santana. She and Brittany might be old news, but he worried that the sound of Britney Spears’s voice would bring back difficult memories anyhow. He was relieved when he saw her bopping happily with one of her dancer friends; maybe he should’ve guessed that Santana would like a song called “Work Bitch” no matter what sort of baggage it came with. He smiled at the thought, and turned away.  

Off in a corner, away from the dancers, he spotted Paul again, and this time he was talking to Lucretia. Well, not exactly talking: they were both leaning against one of the buffet tables, drinking and pretending to watch the dance floor, close to each other but not too close. Every so often she would say something, or he would say something, and there was no one else there, so they had to be talking to each other. Eventually, she put something on the table between them and walked away, joining the crowd gyrating to Britney’s command. Paul waited a few seconds, picked it up, and headed off in the opposite direction.

Blaine made a beeline for his brother, who he found eating turkey and cornbread stuffing over by the fire escape. “Lucretia’s working with _him_?”

“Who the what now?” Cooper looked so innocent, Blaine could almost believe him.

“Come on. Why did you really invite him to the party?”

“I —”

“Was it even really a last minute decision?”

Somehow, that was what got to Cooper. He sighed and put down his paper plate. “Look. Lucretia’s work with the British government includes looking after certain other people in New York, okay? Including Adam. And it’s not always easy to schedule time to, ah, talk. So when she said she’d be in town for Thanksgiving, I had the bright idea of inviting him, too. Not to mention, she tells me he’s leaving, so wouldn’t you prefer for Kurt to have some closure?”

“I — Kurt has plenty of closure,” Blaine spluttered. He was so annoyed at Cooper and his stupid doe-eyed-innocent face. “He doesn’t need you looking out for his psychological well-being. What I need — me, your brother — is for you to respect me enough to not lie to me about what you’re up to. Didn’t we promise, fewer secrets? Especially when they’re about you involving me in your work.”

Cooper shook his head and shrugged. “You’re right. Old habits die hard, squirt. I’m trying.”

And the thing of it was, he was trying. All of them were. They’d gone away together as a family right after graduation, just the four of them for a long weekend in a lodge out in the mountains in Wyoming, and his parents had answered all the questions he could come up with that didn’t involve actual government secrets. Cooper had spent one afternoon teaching him how to bug a room effectively, which hadn’t come in useful yet but he figured might someday. Cooper also made him a new fake ID, which was holding up to all sorts of scrutiny at New York bars. Blaine had done his part too: he’d been more straightforward with his parents than he’d ever been about what an awful year he’d had and why. His mom had hugged him and said “I wish I’d known,” and he found himself wishing he’d told her.

They rode horses and walked trails and Blaine had even tried fishing. He showed Cooper some new dance moves he’d picked up from glee club, and led a singalong one night when a rainstorm knocked out their TV service (His dad really did have a nice baritone). But it hadn’t stopped there. He talked to his parents on the phone at least once a week since he’d moved to New York, and sometimes more. Usually there was news to share, about school or what was going on back home, but sometimes it was just to chat. That was nice, too. Dad said that Mom was having empty nest syndrome, but it was Dad who’d showed up at the loft one afternoon with a toolkit and new locks.

Blaine didn’t know where his parents were spending Thanksgiving this year, but he knew they had a job with a corporate client. Which was all he wanted to know, to be honest: he’d found he worried less if he didn’t know too many details. Cooper, on the other hand, had been clear he was coming to the loft for Thanksgiving for a couple of weeks. Blaine was really happy about it, even when Kurt had enthused to everyone at the diner about his handsome future brother-in-law. The _brother-in-law_ part was what counted, after all.

“I know, Coop,” Blaine sighed. “And I appreciate it, I really do. Just... think, next time?”

Cooper was nodding agreement when Kurt walked up to join them. He looked flushed from dancing, and as delicious as dessert. “You know,” he said to Cooper, “if you’re going to have your friends use our loft for meets, we’re going to need a lot more security.”

“What?” Blaine said.

“They were that obvious?” Cooper asked.

“I’ve been doing my homework,” Kurt shrugged. “It was a fairly standard pass.” He put an arm around Blaine’s waist. “I don’t mind you using us as a meeting spot if Blaine doesn’t, but I do have a few requirements in exchange.”

Cooper leaned forward. “Go on.”

“Counter-surveillance measures on the windows, the external walls, and the doors,” Kurt said firmly. “A hardened home wifi network. Quarterly bug sweeps. A new alarm system for the apartment — I have some ideas, but I’ll be interested in your input, of course.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Cooper said.

“And a schedule,” said Kurt. “I don’t want people just popping in when I’m in the shower. Blaine, did I miss anything?”

Blaine looked over at his fiance with a happily familiar sense of awe. They’d talked about the spy thing, of course they had, but it was so typically Kurt to go out and make himself enough of an expert to go toe-to-toe with a professional. Their life together was going to be fantastic. “I think you covered it,” he said.

“We’ll make it happen,” said Cooper.

It was so nice seeing Kurt and Cooper talking like this. Weird, but also nice. Like the different pieces of his life were finding a way to fit together. It made Blaine think of something. “You know,” he said, “if she needs the space a lot, maybe you could ask Lucretia if her employers would pay for the security upgrade.”

Cooper’s eyes lit up. “I like the way you think, little brother.”

Blaine turned to murmur into his fiance’s ear. “How’d you like a security system bought for you by the Queen of England?”

Kurt’s eyes went wide with astonishment. “You,” he said breathily, turning to face Blaine, “are a genius.” The kiss that followed  — fervent, with a swipe of tongue — left Blaine temporarily speechless with desire.

“So it’s a plan,” said Cooper. “I’ll talk to Lulu, have her run it past her superiors. I think we can make it work though.” He stood up, leaving his plate on his chair, and clapped both Blaine and Kurt on the shoulder. “Boys, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. A beautiful brothership!” He walked off with a decided spring in his step.

Blaine was going to go clean up his brother’s plate — honestly, it was so like him to leave a mess — but Kurt tightened his grip on Blaine’s waist and pulled him in. “My handsome and talented fiancé,” he murmured. “Let’s ditch this party and go make out.”

“Mmmm.” Blaine kissed him hard. “I’d like that. But it’s our party. Our bed is covered in people’s coats.”

“And a drunk girl sleeping it off,” Kurt said. He nipped at Blaine’s earlobe. “She’s got a friend coming to pick her up, though, so don’t worry.”

“Are you sure? Maybe we should check on her —”

“Blaine! It’s fine, I promise.” Kurt wrapped his fingers through Blaine’s belt loops. “But we don’t have to stay if you’re uncomfortable. The party will go on without us.”

Blaine frowned. “Uncomfortable?”

“I know you’re unhappy that my ex is here.”

“Oh. No, I’m fine with it, really.”

Kurt gave him a skeptical look.

He remembered the lecture he’d just given Cooper about communication, and tried again. “Okay, okay. I know I have no right to be jealous —”

“Blaine. You have the right to feel whatever you’re feeling. But I hope you know that I don’t want him or his hot new boyfriend or Shangela or anyone else. Just you.”

Kurt pulled a little on his belt loops and Blaine came happily into an embrace. It felt so much better saying things to Kurt than keeping them inside. Someday, with practice, it would be easy, too. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now let’s go dance.”

The dance floor was still packed: letting the guy from the diner who was also a DJ run the music had been one of this year’s better decisions. Blaine pulled Kurt into the crowd so they could be surrounded by it: the music, the beat, their sweaty friends and happy strangers. The guys from downstairs were getting into it with some NYADA girls, and a few of the drag queens were dancing in pairs. Santana danced with some girl he didn’t recognize, and even Sam had come out from behind the bar to rock out with Rachel. Cooper and Lucretia were dancing together, and so were the girls from Blaine’s music theory class who he’d been hoping all semester would figure it out and start dating. Maybe this party could be the start of something great for them, the same way it was part of something great for Blaine. His whole weird life, sharing the dance floor, and Kurt in his arms, dancing with him, happy and excited. The best Thanksgiving ever, definitely.


End file.
